© Jasim Uddin
Come to the garden by night.
My bee.
I shal stay up the night
Lighting the lamp of moon
And talking to the dew drops
My bee.
Come to the garden by night
should I fall asleep
Tread softly my bee,
Do not break the branch
Or crush my flowers.
Or awaken the flower that is asleep
Come to the garden by night
Beutiful East Bengal, in song they invoke their God
Our country of East Bengal is very beautiful. So many poets-many makers of tunes, are lying under the shade of the trees, under the roofs of the farmers' broken-down cottages, in the depth of the forest, in the shadowy corners of the jute fields, in a thousand moods and a thousand postures to paint the hopes and aspirations, the sorrows and the happiness of the land. There is not a single village where there is not a poet-not a single little community without its singer; and their songs pour forth incessantly as the bird-music echoes in the breeze.
In our country the leaves of the trees and the changing movement of the paddy-fields make a colourful embroidery, and always there is pageant of green-vivid green, cool green, dim green, bright green, dull green, cloudy green, green that is blue almost to blackness; shade after shade of entrancing green such as cannot be found anywhere else on earth. In the folk-tunes of the country the greenness speaks.
How many tunes shall I name? How many festivals shall I describe? In the tragic song of Imam Hussain, in gipsy songs, baul songs, murshida songs, rain songs, in songs innumerable the lovers call those they love, in song they invoke their God, in song they draw down the elemental powers and compel the clouds into the sky.
