Bosom

When my hands reach your bosom, I feel
A small bird is cupped in my hands
If I cup it a little more, it will die---
I let the tip of my fingers roll on---
The feathers of your bosom wake up.
I hide the grain and the husk
Where the lips of your bosom meet the dusk
Your bosom screeches out in ecstasy---
While it flaps its “feathers”
And caresses my face, lips, chest and neck,
Your bosom.

(Translated from ‘Ston’---a Bengali poem by Shamsher Anwar, a poet of Bangladesh.
‘Ston’---in Bengali means “breasts”)