Dear God, a poet: at least many poets say you <br />Are a poet too. <br /> <br />They say it, because your fingertips make <br />The sunset beyond the mountains <br />Under the shade of the wide sky-leaf, <br />And deposit the hopes of a star On birds' eye-lids' <br /> <br />And your melodies tune up on the cloud's organ <br />Prompt on the first day of the rainy season. <br /> <br />I heard only this, because <br />I never have gone far from this city, <br />Not stayed beyond these dark lanes <br />And their shrouded surroundings <br />Denying their earnest call. <br /> <br />So please tell me, God, <br />Did you ever enter into a burning hell of agony <br />For a single piece of poetry? <br />Did you ever pace back and forth upon <br />The same street again and again? <br />Did you ever lay awake <br />So you could shine a lady's face with suitable words. <br /> <br />Then, tell me God, 'the poet', <br />Admit that you, too, are covered with your own blood, <br />You, too, are often mistaken <br />For just a remarkable metaphor. <br /> <br />[Translated from the Bengali by Hassanal Abdullah]<br /><br />Abu Hena Mostafa Kamal<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poet-33/
