From 'Graves' by Jasimuddin

Jasimuddin is well-known in Bangladesh as a folk poet. Most of his work relates to villagers and was meant to bring attention to the hardships of village life in Bangladesh.

This is from his most famous poem, 'Graves,' which was actually used in the matriculation exam for the University of Calcutta in 1929. This was pretty remarkable because not only was he a student at the time, but was a Muslim as well.

It just spoke to me because a farmer's life is the only life my late grandfather knew, and because he also died in April, exactly a year ago.

Bangla is so pretty, I don't think the translation does this poem justice and makes it seem archaic (although it is from the early 1900's).

One April morning my boy called out,

'Father, I cannot go to the fields today.'

I spread out a mat on the floor for him, said 'Sleep, my Son.'

How could I know that this would be his last slumber?

A clean coffin I made him, and as I carried him here

'Where are you taking my father?' you followed crying.

I could not answer, my little son,

All the words in the world turned away grieving.

Night and day your mother's tears were unceasing,

Clasping your father's yoke and plough in both hands.

For sorrow the leaves fell from the forest trees,

The winds of April wailed in the empty rice-fields;

And villagers passing along that path wiped their eyes.

Even the leaves they trod underfoot crumpled and died.

From their stall the two bullocks regarded the unploughed fields

While your mother clung to their necks with heart-broken sobs

Till it seemed the whole village would drown

In oceans of her weeping.

Perhaps the tears of that lovely girl

Found a path to the land of the dead.

In the morning ofher life she longed for evening;

Ah, poor girl, she wove her own shroud with her hands.

Before her death she summoned you to her:

My child, she said, my greatest pain is

Leaving you motherless in this world,

My darling, my jewel, my son.

What blessings she gave you!

Then to me, 'Over my grave hang my husband's wide wicker

sun-hat;

It will swing in the wind.'

Long ago that hat fell and mixed with the dust.

But the pain in my heart still cries out

For these two that sleep in the shade.

How lovingly the tree-boughs bend above;

The fire-fly maidens of evening light lamps

And the crickets make music with small bells tinkling.

Fold your hands, grandson and pray: 'oh come, eternal God,

Let Paradise descend now for father and mother.'

-Translation from Jasimuddin.org