Two Poems by Ahsan Habib
This Mind – This Earth
At last, I built a home on the ash-stacks of fallen leaves,
yet dreams of green ones enclose it too often in sheaves.
Yet frequently in the green forest the sun's last ray
brings colours' deceit deep into my mind every single day.
Days of endless hopes have fled, their shadows still lingering,
still dreamily on the horizon, their shapes so astonishing
aslant the banks of memories tremble on my tired eyes,
still now in hope of good days, this heart intolerably dies.
That day the sky was cloudless, on paths of the world somewhere
the first love I chanced upon was as if a virgin there were,
splaying aroma from her unruly hair on paths in that dawn's flames
going from house to house incessantly calling intimate names
of her friends; there she left her song blossoms, I forgot when
unmindfully from there I took up a bit of their pollen.
I fell in love with the known world with a little understanding,
I didn't know there was a huge lie in that sort of acquainting.
I didn't know that countless wings burn too repeatedly
in the flames of the lamp I ended up loving unknowingly.
I didn't know that seizing eye gleams from a sunflower
millions of insects grow up under its shade quite regular.
To win the heart of one who burns all for her thirst's sake
is at stake, yet the one with whom we fall in love by mistake.
Smells of earth are so deep, and its horde of illusions as such,
crowd our body and soul with boundless feelings too much.
That's why I spread myself atom by atom on paths far and wide;
the delicacy of touching this softened earth – its slightest pride
I probably wanted, in intervals of my tiredness most likely,
in my favoured mud house I craved the tiniest moon lovingly.
Along the most-known of their paths, days came and went,
many clouds rained down on the paths and many a sun bent,
on countless nights many moons played on the pond's water,
in that clamour, like snow this love of mine did in a quiver
end up fallen and dead, yet that death of a sort too often
I thought of as a gift of tenderness, so in that lost tuneful strain
trembled once more neglected days and favoured words of desire,
though light's placidity dropped no shadow on my eyes ever.
All the tunes of what I sang, an awful lot of my worshiping,
this heart's all its fragrances and melody of its longing
in earnest and fully charged on doors and windows somewhere
did strikes, stretched these two hands too often in despair.
Nothing in return.
That day I knew man is so unlucky with no cure,
we owe this earth an endless debt of gratitude for sure.
Bonds and wretchedness from time immemorial together in a bind
are eternally yoked to human minds like shackles of a kind.
So flames of agony, too, calm down in lively graceful beliefs,
at last, I built a home on the ash-stacks of fallen leaves.
I ended up loving the ones who keep sharp nails to utilize;
still today, I worship the name of who has fierce fire in eyes.
Under a cover painted thick by deep tranquil colours
ugly souls of this world blaze in shamefully lusty clamours,
yet I built a home on that land roughened by some dearth,
there's no rupture between this mind and this earth.
Unhappiness
I'm very unhappy. Unhappiness from my birth onwards. No, no,
I was born in unhappiness.
Leaving nets of all these intoxicating lines,
a few of this world's childish but aged and clever fishermen
adrift on this human sea
lately navigate their boats with untameable hands. We're at a loss.
A few of youthful boys with a few of youthful girls
woven by a thin thread of this philosophy of unhappiness
suddenly have gone to childhood
and setting fire to civilization's fake cover out in the open,
a fire of bravado,
they only scream in a hoarse voice:
We're very restless. What do we want,
what more do we want, what more!
They say: Terror-struck in this terror-struck world,
we only run to and fro. Saying this, they run, breathless.
If you'd like to ask where they're running to,
they effortlessly reply: No address,
nor any desire for any one anymore.
Lighting the fire of fury from the gusts of pessimistic winds,
they say: Let them all burn,
greenery on both sides, from old houses
the old things we'll set fire to and
leave at every doorstep an emptiness the only truth known.
And if suddenly ever in this mad festival
a saddened old passer-by asks them: The burden of this emptiness,
who carries it this way, for what meaning, what use, what profit!
They say: There's no meaning. This is what we've learnt in life
quite well. We've known there's no use walking in search of meaning.
No use wasting time for any profit, whatsoever,
nor counting cowries of emptiness in this imaginary shadow!
It's better off drifting away
on wild tides. And since
going down after floating is the only truth in this world,
we, too, will drown truth's brilliantly dressed, old donkey,
navigate our boats with untameable hands for some time,
drift away with the surging tides
and then drown ourselves!
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