Footnote to a Melancholy Temperature
— M A Wazed
In the windpipe of this land’s anguished atmosphere—
The accusatory greeting of carbon dioxide has intensified;
The paths we tread are neither docile nor trouble-free—
That grey, dingy,
blue rural dwelling born of astonishing poverty-stricken thought; Seems exactly like granulite;
Hungry faces—
Clad in the garb of servitude,
their inner selves utterly bankrupt;
The sharp-fanged pickpocket of illusory bliss prowls,
Seeking the life-giving oxygen and vapor drawn from the earth’s sap.
The Gestapo-like mobile units of a terrifying force grip our throats;
We recognize the grotesque mask and cloak of deep darkness.
O virgin blue sky! O North Star, harbinger of joy!
Our weary, sightless eyes today—
Have forgotten the nameplate at the ice-clad T-junction of suffering.
In the cells, veins, and arteries of the crude Titan-monster
Clings the savage, angular verdict of a blood-tribunal;
The fiery slogans of revolution are lost in the tsunami’s wake.
Amidst the racist vulgarity of hideous sound waves—
The sitar’s melody has lost its power to create.
The rhythmic soul of poetry is trapped in the sticky resin of grief;
The world’s womb hangs suspended by the slave-rope of an auction.
The maw of brute force tears at the aching heart of the flag of destiny.
Human liberation?
She is now a fugitive—
the lost beloved of the wandering wind;
A tuneless, failed song is penned in the footnotes of a melancholy temperature.
Translated by: Abul Khair
