SYED SHAMSUL HAQUE
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)
 Syed Shamsul Haq (b. 1944), first book of poems ‘Ekoda ek Rajye‘ was published in 1961