The Cry of Dove-hearts
by Shahinur Islam
Our dove-heart is extinct like paradise flycatchers
where lives now a sense of hybridity.
It is, as it were, the cultivation
of eucalyptus in the pitraj land.
Humanity is today a species
that comes to be endangered like magpie-robins
and is found only in pages of books
and painted as a picture here and there
or a coin of Goura, Pundra period
or else that of the Ashoka regime
lost forever or lain in ceaseless sleep
in some museum— so it bears no value
of its own except historical one.
Whether it’s humanity or dove-heart,
both now seem a pillarless asylum
of the invalid to power and money,
a pretension to the heavy monsoon
in the blistered land of the worthless mind.
Those who’re crushed in the sick race of the world
those who live in their huts in seclusion
those whose hearts are burdened with refined sense
those whose fathomless mind is a river
where endless streams of perturbed pains still flow,
stand as a shelter in their hearts alone
for them without any prop or support
like a single star gazing from afar,
like a statue without life or ideals.