Lonely Poet, Deserted Restaurant

Write up in the brain. The restaurant close by.

Asharh turned up in bundles of clouds

It will make you feel dejected, destitute- the roads are all dug up

Who knows when those mud will be removed

One has to move among these rubbles

Poems and coffee are in waiting.

Suddenly the rain starts, lightning roared

The poet slipped and fell.

The body covered with mud. How could he proceed?

He stood languid, the time goes by

Still the love does to leave

Dejection still is present.

Though the path is slippery, the dress got filthy

Walk on, Move on, do not stand still.

Whether time is hostile and repulsive-

Don’t let poetry be stopped

Poetry is not to be prevented.

There’s no end in sufferings. the papers are held tightly

Coffee beacons, the lights of the restaurant

Something instead of milk, black coffee, sugar of sounds.



The flowers in the flower-vase emit rain-soaked fragrance

The nightly restaurant displays sorcery

Whose open lock of hairs crush on the lonely bosom

When Asharh comes The Padma becomes unruly and devours acres of land

The fire roars up, jumps up in the air

It’s impossible to forget and opens up everything

Not in the past, the poet visits the vicinity of stars

When the poet knew the paradise is his forte

The fragrance of hair mixes up with the scent of flowers

Now the perfume remains – and the darkness.



Warm smell of coffee. Two flowers are painted on the cup

Long stack of the flowers intertwined each other

So many days the poet came to the restaurant

And felt the desertion alone.

In Asharh the rain was heavy and incessant

‘His book of poems is beside him

Poet drinks his coffee sip by sip alone

The world is vast and anything can be his subject of writing

But today a single face- without the only one face

He has nothing with him

Love does not come to an end–

Coffee finishes sip by sip.


She is absent, still the poet comes

Slowly pours coffee in the white cup

This is the same chair, this is the same table

The curtain of the window fly, still it is blue

The colour of void is white. death is dark black

What was all through the life- now it diminishes

Still flower and the ashtray are there on the table

Only she is not there. And turned into shadow

Ashes of the ashtray remain in pathetic air

The fragrance of that very day remain in the restaurant

The light beacon blew out on the river of memory

The watery writings are written by the pen.

(Translated by: Siddique Mahmudur Rahman)

[1] Syed Shamsul Haq (b. 1944), first book of poems ‘Ekoda ek Rajye‘ was published in 1961


Leave a Reply