In your voice, the bubbles revel | Belayat Masum

These poems are a journey through wind, water, and the quiet tremors of the heart. They explore the delicate intersections of longing, memory, and presence—where the body, nature, and the unseen pulse of emotion meet.

Here, the river listens, the wind carries secrets, and even silence has a voice. Each piece traces fleeting moments of awareness, desire, and the subtle intoxication of being, inviting the reader to drift into the same trance, the same gentle unrest.

1.
I am caught inside a trance of wind,
yet each day I sit upon the back of gentle sun.
What if I sink—
what if a sunken ship carried me afar,
I am caught inside a trance of wind.

Such joy encircles my window:
the sweet dialogue of birds,
the whispering secrets between leaves,
and ants returning homeward.

On the clothesline hangs the winter’s breath.
I lie still,
the sky dampened with tender clouds.
What if they fall—
what if, in a stormy night, the river itself goes under,
I am caught inside a trance of wind.


2.
Leaves are flying in the winter wind,
my feet are carrying me somewhere.
The dust cannot rise, yet the ducks
dive into the shallow water.

I hang within the fever of fire.
Birds returning at dusk are a little curious;
I sway like tender grass.

The dust believes the leaves are drunk.
All afternoon lies lost in the wind’s delirium.
A loosened door gazes with a smile,
and the winter wind rushes over me.


3.
Fire stands still around me;
along the riverbank I walk alone.
Yet such heat—
it rises like a fever’s lament upon my skin.

I have no dwelling in the depths.
In the folds of shadow I have lost my trace.
Some wanderer pauses
beside this fire of mine;
I think I will drown,
like a reptile living only on warmth.

The sun is secretly burning away.
With the noise of words, perhaps today
your eager eyes will stand and wait.


4.
Within the winter wind I sit—
a river beside me.
Who will play the jhumur?
Your knock is absent at the door.
A single moon,
hidden in snow,
calls me every night.

Near the silent river a drunken sarod
clings to its ring of sound.
Upon the wet grass a few reddened fingers
summon with fervor.
In moonlight, a colored insect—
chirring, chirring, chirring—
whose name lies inscribed upon the water?

Inside the water the river sits;
its fragrance rides away upon the drunken air.


5.
All words keep returning, returning again.
The rose has grown a little more pale.
No latch upon the door—
the eager winds slip in, day after day.

Like drunken leaves I too
hide away some words each day.

Across your eyelids spreads a magical shadow.
The darkness trembles with the crickets’ song.
As I walk, it fades away—
this trance-drenched slumber of a million years.

All, all keeps returning, always returning again.


6.
I keep my back turned toward the sun,
in the tender warmth,
a trace of gentle wind
loosens my hair into disarray.

In the drawer-bed lie faded clothes,
and a feather scented with fragrance.
I think, in silence, I will fly—
how far, how far must I go to become nothing?
The simple voices of words
cling to my ears each day.

Perhaps I am drowned in the sun’s story,
perhaps a little with my own body—
I shall lie against a deadened door,
sunk in the solitude of wine’s intoxication.


7.
In your voice, the bubbles revel—
on the city’s edge, the wind overflows.
The house I’ve built far from you
drags me into the abyss with worry.

Diving deeper, I hear only your voice,
clinging to the light of melody—
my drunken heart
calls out a name from some distant place.

Am I even here on this earth?
I unfold the folds of wind, seeking only your words.
If the abyss surrounds—
my paths rejoice,
and the festival pauses.

In your voice, the bubbles revel—
in the wind’s sound, I find such lamentation.


8.
The roads of the earth
are gazing at me—
I will walk far, along the music’s abode
where, like me,
some are without home,
without love—lying unclothed.

Lying down I will adorn
the naked feet of the sky with anklets—
they will chime inside my head.
And I, like a pilgrim of the mother,
along the roads of the earth—
will sing in some ancient tune,
soaking my body in the wind.

In the drenched evening perhaps I will return home—
perhaps, in search of me, someone like you
will keep calling, walking along the riverbank.
Along the roads of the earth—
on these very roads our paths may cross.

9.
Three and a half days have passed, I am drunken
by the pond’s edge—
unbathed, wrapped in a shroud.

The grasses may grow lustful—
or blush in shyness.

Touching my body,
the water of evening mist descends—
and the birds’ beaks, kissed in red,
fly away on the hunt, lost in deep contemplation.

Another three and a half days slip by,
I am no longer drunken—
yet I tumble upon the grass.
Returning home at dusk,
three laughing kings fly overhead,
and with closed eyes I keep watching the scene.


10.
Suddenly, winter descends,
a jungle deep within the heart—
the nest of a black bird.
April has ended,
winter arrives without prior word.

There is no path for my return.
Dressed in winter’s coat, I step out;
all around, misted bubbles,
and as if that bird
keeps calling my name.

I no longer write letters,
seeking to know where your home is.
Winter has ended—
if there is a need to return,
an airplane may carry me
toward your door—
to the window where you sit, absorbed in watching.

Original in Bangla-  তোমার কন্ঠেই মেতে আছে বুদ 

Translated by ChatGPT

Belayat Masum

Lisbon/2025