I Now I adore my days in exile. Everybody expected my stay in hell, My lonely departure to an unknown destination. At the call of winter, my favorite season, I left the stirred land with ShonkoGhosh. I crossed the river of sugarcane, went up-stream and far beyond . Today my exile square is dazzling with distant sunshine. The white clouds float like boats, leave the earthly residence of forest , and beg deeply in a nocturnal heath in the land of night fairies . I see the reflection of a shrine in the waters of the sugarcane river. Is this the desired destinations ? Both in exile and in seeking shelter, my palm is not empty. I ‘have got the sunshine, the soil of heritage to nurse, and the blessings of the Shreehottopuran . The stay with Shonkoghosh will end After returning to the village of Shreebash Pandeet. The glory of those golden days will sink into oblivion. Immortality rises in another yard at every dawn amidst endangered nature. I stand under the shadow of paper-forest unveiling starts. I am holding a cruel bow. My days in exile dazzle like a luster point. On the bank of the river of sugarcane lies the poet's dead body. The shadowy sun draws the forgotten faces. Shadows of tears and deception gather continuously ----. II My sorrow is that I did not come in handy for love. Love, therefore, went back with the indifferent gloom of two flowers. I have thought of this offense beyond forgiveness. How speechless -hidden-motionless that love was! A piece of broken morning contained the whole history. I said,"Call me if you love me. I may serve your mundane purpose.” Now I think. Everybody certainly has an agitated destination. There exists spontaneous flood of social interaction. Sound of colorful leaves is heard nowhere. Rain reigns with forgetfulness like an eternal fish. Yet this inevitable -cruel-deaf love raises melodies. And stirs the heart of the world's sky. The cluster of love flowers well-knit by unfaltering, Finger was lost on the way. Intense is my heartache. Yet the branch bore buds of roses. That blue smile no longer exists. My sorrow is that I did not come in handy on that day. After you departed, I found no more way. I am alone in my room surrounded by yellow light. Those old mistakes are my only mundane collections. III Yet that polite end won't end? Won't this bright sunny day come to an end? Long ago, bearing the pipe of your current, I kept floating on corals of victory. Then for a long time I was transmitted from rose to rose. There is only one sound---- You said,"Victory is ahead, Victory is just ahead". You, only you,come to my mind incessantly. Touching the sign of the scar a different you come. While quenching my human thirst, I have known like many a reflection- Victory contains so many irresistible defeats. In the hope of all destruction, if a day ends and begins again, I won't hesitate to drink any lethal poison. If I ever find cruelty looking for that name, I'll start looking for you and so will you for me in crores of galaxies. This last end sings all around. It remains chained forever. Yet it crushes the hidden fort. Shadows of birth hang amidst devastating storms. News after news comes forth. Love of people can be forgotten but power can never be. This is life despite being amidst all dilemma. Your message is lucidly sent through the whole country. May this fire burn absorbing all the water for quenching thirst. Endless is this Generation Square. No values can make the silent vibrant. The feathers of the language gradually drop from the sky. You said," Victory is ahead, victory is just ahead" IV My sorrow is that I did not come in handy for love Love, therefore, went back with the indifferent gloom of two flowers I have thought of this offence beyond forgiveness. How speechless -hidden-motionless that love was! A piece of broken morning contained the whole history. I said ,"Call me if you love me I may serve your mundane purpose." Now I think everybody certainly has a agitated destination. There exists spontaneous flood of social interaction Sound of colourful leaves is heard nowhere Rain reigns with forgetfulness like an eternal fish Yet this inevitable -cruel-deaf love raises melodies And stirs the heart of the world's sky The cluster of love flowers well-knit by unfaltering fingers was lost on the way. Intense is my heartache. Yet the branch bore buds of roses That blue smile no longer exists My sorrow is that I did not come in handy on that day After you departed, I found no more way I am alone in my room surrounded by yellow light Those old mistakes are my only mundane collection. V That rejection came like a storm. Your beauty trembled. But I felt pity in that twinkling darkness When I had to return that poor white sheet. I solitarily left behind the tale of soulful words. Anxiety has been generated from this irresponsive white sheet. I am going to face it tomorrow. There are still some deaf corners to be explored. The horizon is ahead. The twilight is gradually spreading over fields. Your tears have touched my heart again.
Fazlul Haque a relatively obscure and controversial poet and critic of contemporary Bengali literature, was born on September 1, 1961, in Bangladesh. He earned his Post-Graduate Degree from the University of Chittagong, Bangladesh, and worked for the Government until he retired.
His spiritual relationship with the ancient Indian intelligentsia and his unrestrained literary prodigy has established him as a true successor of the lineage of Panchakhanda-born Indian philosophers and scholars well-known in the history of Bengali literary itinerary. He is well-known for his poetry books ‘Prithak Dangshan’ and ‘Kabir Janmadin’, “Shankha Ghoser Sange Nirbasaner Dine.” He also edited Topodhir Bhattacharjee: Life and Works and other literary books and journals. He was awarded the prestigious London Award 2004, by the London Poetry Center, England, in collaboration with Bangladesh Research Centre, UK. As a poet, thinker and scholar, he has been invited to deliver lectures at several national and international universities.
Global scholar poet critic readers have accepted his poetry with an idea of the height of Bengali poetry with his own poetic diction by his exotic metaphors and imagery. He is described as one of the most genuine of contemporary Bengali poets…. (Hindustan Times).