Poem on Ekushey
"The vine is weighed down
with pumpkin blossoms,
'Sajna' legumes
are a-plenty on the tree,
and I have stored away
dried pulse cakes,
Khoka, my son, when will you come?
When will your holidays begin?"
--The letter was in his pocket
torn, and drenched in blood. "Mother dear, they say
they'll snatch away all our words,
will not let us lie in your lap
and listen to stories any more.
Tell me, mother, can that ever be?
That is why I'm delayed.
I'll come home only when I have
my bushel full of words for you.
Mother dear, don't be cross,
it's only a few days more."
"Crazy boy,"
mother smiles as she reads
"Can I be cross with you?"
She prepares chipped coconut,
fries crispy popped rice,
This that and whatnot
her son is coming home,
her tired Khoka. The pumpkin blossoms
are all withered
the legumes have all fallen off;
the puin vines grown listless,
"Khoka, have you come?"
With hazy eyes Mother looks out
towards the yard, the yard
where vultures dissect
Khoka's lifeless form.
Now the summer sun in Mother's eyes
burns up the hungry vultures.
And then,
sitting on the threshold,
mother again threshes rice,
fries binni rice into khoi,
her Khoka
could come back, anytime, anytime. Now there's
a dewy morn in her eyes,
the homestead basks
in affectionate sunshine.
with pumpkin blossoms,
'Sajna' legumes
are a-plenty on the tree,
and I have stored away
dried pulse cakes,
Khoka, my son, when will you come?
When will your holidays begin?"
--The letter was in his pocket
torn, and drenched in blood. "Mother dear, they say
they'll snatch away all our words,
will not let us lie in your lap
and listen to stories any more.
Tell me, mother, can that ever be?
That is why I'm delayed.
I'll come home only when I have
my bushel full of words for you.
Mother dear, don't be cross,
it's only a few days more."
"Crazy boy,"
mother smiles as she reads
"Can I be cross with you?"
She prepares chipped coconut,
fries crispy popped rice,
This that and whatnot
her son is coming home,
her tired Khoka. The pumpkin blossoms
are all withered
the legumes have all fallen off;
the puin vines grown listless,
"Khoka, have you come?"
With hazy eyes Mother looks out
towards the yard, the yard
where vultures dissect
Khoka's lifeless form.
Now the summer sun in Mother's eyes
burns up the hungry vultures.
And then,
sitting on the threshold,
mother again threshes rice,
fries binni rice into khoi,
her Khoka
could come back, anytime, anytime. Now there's
a dewy morn in her eyes,
the homestead basks
in affectionate sunshine.
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