Casino Boy 

There is nothing in the boy’s eyes but sleep; He stays awake all night, pouring liquor into glasses— 

Yet, he has never touched the essence of the drink itself. 

Everyone calls him the “Casino Boy.” 

It is said that his father is a fugitive, 

While his mother lives in a colonial-style neighborhood—

A place where, every single night, she practices democracy.

A prostitute gives him shelter— 

Back then, he hadn’t yet learned to speak, Save for the language of the eyes. 

Now, he turns words into songs, 

His voice rich with intricate melodies. 

He has yet to turn twelve, 

Yet his eyes hold a layer of frost.

At this age, his school is a casino club—

The gamblers are all his teachers! 

What a strange democracy! 

His eyelids sink into the night, 

Blinded by the glare of the stars; 

The footsteps of guards rouse him—

In the mirror of a filthy urinal, 

He searches for the reflection of his own future. 

All around, the exhaustion of 

A wounded night lies in wait; 

A crack appears in the mirror, 

And down the walls of silence, 

The barbarism of civilization comes tumbling.

A tainted veil of night 

Blankets the gentle oxygen. 

In the youth’s stifled cry, 

The mercury in the barometer rises in warmth; in a damp, hushed voice, 

The world dances on the fringes of sin— 

A quiet coexistence of wine and bread, 

the sound of the wind, the touch of the wind; and then… 

Deep within the boy’s eyes, 

A slumber of death spreads— 

A thwarted youth, 

The very face of death. 

Nothing else remains. 

A single blade of bare grass drifts in a circle.

Mesfakus Salahin, Bangladesh