Bangladesh

Sitting on the peak of mountain, whose face frequently I see; walking with my beloved on the streets of Rome, whose words I remember; like a pet pigeon, to whom my heart and body come back when the sun sets; setting whose eyes into my eyes, I see the beauty of a yellow bird and seeing the prosaic fly of crow and shalik I get every day speechless both in joy and wonder- she is my Bangladesh, as dearest to me as water for thirst at a noon of Chaitra; in a winter-morning she is my shawl of Kashmir, my safe home during a storm and rain, and the sail of my good luck upstream swelling like a tandur-bread. Writing my name on that sail, I, the last boatman of century, have started rowing my boat laying stake to life. *shalik- a kind of bird * tandur- a kind of big bread