In Bengali

There are lots of things I badly need to confess in Bengali
even though serpents twine around my success – in Bengali.

Romantics say you can’t wipe out what’s learned in the womb.
Our chauvinists cry: It’d exactly be told more or less in Bengali.

I’d let my mother’s language float away with the ebb-tide;
yet I’m a mudskipper she doesn’t bother to bless in Bengali.

With my feet on ground, I let a new wind come in through windows.
Does the earlier wind have anything else to express in Bengali?

Someone said every language is a uniform we must wear;
years spent elsewhere doubt if yet again I’d dress in Bengali.

Country folks gape at me; they hang about perplexed for hours
until I speak something epiphanic like Yes in Bengali.

I’m a Jesus, with the cross of being wacky in alien words.
They look contented as they calculate my distress in Bengali.

As lust pushed me into flames Make love to her now or never,
I didn’t have any other option but to undress in Bengali.

I was jilted in love and broke into consoling tears in public.
How would I forget the eruption of my sadness in Bengali?

I swim in other channels; yet nothing feels like home
unless bastards of my clan cheer me or depress in Bengali.

My parents and the ones I now live with are the whole lot.
I wonder if I felt satisfied talking to them ever unless in Bengali.

The country I live in has scumbags around every corner,
say, linguistic chauvinists I’d like to impress in Bengali.

Sofiul, don’t forget your Local Muse who said in a dream:
You’d better not underrate the effects of your caress in Bengali.