Reviving the Ruined
by Shahinur Islam
O Rain! You drenched much the dry land,
fields, meadows, forests, wilderness
overflowed the ponds, the rivers,
the canals, the fens, the wetlands
for thousand years— sometimes freely
sometimes on the pretext of freaks.
Drench my heart this time as you did
my forefathers to senseless joy,
gave leisure to compose sad songs
for the absence of their dear ones,
to wash away their deep sorrow
to sing in their stentorian voice
Bhatiali, Bhawaiya music
and so many great rainy songs
while riding the raft pushed in floods
or at great adda of full noon.
Drench my mind-desert just like this,
I don’t care about my body.
If you come down, I’ll get— leisure,
freedom from urban rattling tiredness,
fertile laziness. I’ll glean beauties
of life only. My heart has dried
much earlier— but lived as pieces
on a tattered sheet of the world.
Drench me in the sodden leisure.
If my body lives just like this,
my heart will be very short-lived.
And dead heart has nothing to give;
it pulls and drags the rest of life.