(Translation of a Bangla poem by fellow poet M. Rahman)
When I see a happy and smiling face,
I writhe in pain as if poisoned
by a thousand venomous fangs
and fists clenched in rage, my knuckles grow white;
the urge to shatter the world grows with it.
When I find sympathy and loving care
it feels as if I’m witnessing
an award winning act on stage.
While walking down a busy road, I feel
an urge to kick the fellow passers by
and make them fall, tumbling towards the ground.
Tales of woe and of horrid losses
satiate my blood, craving for a cruel bliss.
Stories of diligent perseverance
behind one’s success and achievements
engulf my existence in a huge flame
of envy, of jealousy and I burn.
The queen of flowers sparkling bright
seems no less vile than a painted whore.
All I ever think of in my rare dreams
are ways to bring destruction to the world.
In my life I want to hear Israfel
blow his trumpet of annihilation,
effacing life from the face of the earth.
I dearly wish the human race
would be the first of them to go
for the mutual animosity between us
had made me a misanthrope, a long time ago.