Shohor er raasta bhangche aaj, bristi’r jol,Protibader istehaar,
Ar amar jomiye rakha, tomake lekha chithi.
Some nights the rain pounds too hard
On my scalp on my skin
Seeps through the crack of my ass
And trickles down like urine
From wet dreams of a desert.
I’ve dreamt about deserts for so long now
My tongue rubs like sandpaper
On dark nipples of yawning prostitutes.
Tumi jano na kibhabe ami
Jol bnaachiye choli, ei shohor er ghat bhengeche bonya tohbil,
Ar motadorsher nongrami.
The mind, like every complex beehive
Can be broken into separate rooms inside its own captivity.
There is a kitchen, where salt pepper scissors litter a worn out cooking counter.
There is a bathroom that smells of loneliness and strands of your hair
There is a bedroom which has longed for childbirth
And has seen too many silent abortions, on wrinkled bedsheets.