It has been a few weeks that <br />A dirt smudged postcard with bad handwriting <br />Sitting in his shirt pocket. <br />Wherever the young man goes <br />The postcard goes with him. <br />The incorrectly spelt and awfully worded letter falls asleep <br />Close to the young man's chest <br />With its smell of village flowers, <br />Creepers and mimosa shrubs <br />And the soft rippling sound of water <br />On the edge of the pond. <br />The postcard from his sister <br />perturbs him at times. <br />The unemployed youth <br />Is helpless to support the family <br />Without a patriarch. <br />He stays out of harm's way <br />and keeps a very little involvement. <br />None has ever seen him in any political meetings or processions. <br />He has rather been searching for a job relentlessly. <br />Hunger and deep sighs are his constant companions. <br />Yet, on a terrified noon, <br />His chest was pierced by a sudden bullet. <br />The youth did not even have a chance to comprehend <br />Where the bullet was from. <br />Was it the police or was it from a terrorist? <br />The youth did not know. <br />Only the postcard, he noticed, in his pocket <br />Soaked up with his own blood. <br /> <br />[Translated from the Bengali by Zakeria Shirazi]<br /><br />Shamsur Rahman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-postcard/
