Sitting on the peak of mountain, whose face
Frequently I see; walking with my beloved
On the streets of Rome, whose words I remember;
Like a pet pigeon, to whom my heart and body
Come back when the sun sets; setting whose eyes
Into mine, I see the beauty of a yellow bird
And seeing the prosaic fly of crow and shalik
I get every day speechless both in joy and wonder-
She is my Bangladesh, as dearest to me as water for thirst
At a noon of Chaitra; in a winter-morning she is my shawl
Of Kashmir, my safe home during a storm and rain, and the sail
Of my good luck upstream swelling like a tandur-bread.
Writing my name on that sail, I, the last boatman of century,
Have started rowing my boat laying stake to life.
