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(5)Poems>Tomizuddin Lodi
STORY OF A NEW NATSHI 

Father used to tell me, ĎBe gentle, learn to be soft.í
Difficult to be sophisticated, easy to be arrogant.
At the end of my life I canít tell my son.
ĎBe gentle, learn to be soft. Naturally my youth son
arrogantly says, Father, what did you get
Being gentle, soft, learning etiquette?
Some people always dance on the shoulder of others.
Seeing the shadow of arrogance, unsophisticated taste 
of obstinacy of Hitlerís country; I was startled.
An indulgent bull bending its neck only roars.
All people canít become Hitler or Natshi going to Hitlerís 
country.
But some become Hitler.
The feeling of New Natshi touches him.
The bull only angrily roars, bulduzing otherís opinion like 
Facists.
It seems to me
New Natshis are exhaling poisonous breath again.
Translation: Santu Kumar Dutta

WE DIDNíT HAVE ANY PLATERO

Like Prusto , I have handed over all my complaints to 
Platero,
Platero! my nearest one, my Platero!
The invisible horse that keeps running 
into my sense and sensibility,
Even that I have laid on the altar, like a chained stone ;
You want to detect its molecule? ok then,  Let it be so. 

The one who stands at the end of the dark tunnel,  
has not to be a sailor,
He is not even an angel or Platero,
He is an exhausted farmer- he is a proletariat-  
like a free, frank open field. 

The sparks of fire that spread around from the fireplace,
only iron-hard determination can set it 
on the current of water, 
the water that flows on by moving the oar 
into the journey of eternity.

Like a patient suffering on his death-bed,  
the perfumed pain  visited the starved home that day,
Evil darkness blocked the way of Restoration,
sometimes  it stood  face to face in a flash of light;
To say welcome to it even we gathered 
on the bed of mud and blood.

All these are illusions - 
I know, over the ages, 
we did never have any Platero.
Translation: Nazmul Haque
 
STAIRS

Breaking the stairs, I proceed; 
Condensed darkness parvades in and around the corridor
like  the wing-wavering lights from the duck of Matis, 
the ray remains reflected on the floor,
amidst these four-sided lights, the lamp-light is flickering.

The darkness is so entangled - as if  a spider's web,
the bats are flying away-
Reflections are wavering in the shadowy light,
and the lights are splitting apart - as if an image 
painted upon the canvas of acrylic.

Amidst all these, we are putting forward 
our calculated steps,
upon the bed of thick mud and blood,
unfathomed we are making our way 
breaking into the heart of darkness,
ignoring the shadowy light
we are breaking this endless stair
keeping in mind some other endless destination.
Translation: Nazmul Haque
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