Md Shahadat Hossain | + Follow Poet |
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Graves, Part-2

The springs wind used to cry in the vacant field.
The passers by used to shed their tears, in the mean time the leaves of the trees started to mourn themselves.
The two bulls were used to cry making loud sound and expecting might be your father was coming.
Your mother also used to cry embracing the two bulls neck diving her whole body into deep ocean of her tears.
Might be the tears of the indifferent roral gilrs found their path into the grave yard.
In the very begging of her life she brought her own death and crowned herself with that pathetic death.
While she was about to die, "O dear son, I am leaving now. I am so sad that you had no one but me. My darling child, I know how hard is for me to leave you alone in such a loneliness.
You mother wished you a lot shedding her tears.
After a while your mother requested us, " If we put the turban on her grave yard in which was used by your father.
That turban had been rotten and disappeared into the soil with the sun light and rains water. 
The aches of the heart has no death.
The pairs of your parents are sleeping here under the shade of trees.
The bright stars of the sky were used to give them light.
The crickets were used to use the anklet of the sleep as they used to love them too much. 
O dear grandson, raise your two hands, " Pray to God that He grants paradise for your parents.
Just here is your sister's grave yard. She was similar to a princess. 
We arranged her marriage in a rich family.
They didn't like her too much.
They used to torture her brutally.
She used to send letters to me," If I could bring her from there just for couple of days to her parents home.
Her father in law was a butcher, he didn't want to allow her leave.
After requesting a lot I brought her here during the last winter.
There was no smile on her golden face. Her two black eyes were flooding with her tears.
She used to pass her days sitting beside her parents grave yard.
We didn't know she would die earlier.
An unknown fever took her away.
O dear grandson, come here silently where we buried her.
That ill fated girl was loved by none,
But her grave yard was covered with the wild black grasses.
The doves of the forest cry by day and at night. 
Her sorrows are beeped on the leaves of the trees.
O dear grandson, raise your two hands, " Pray to God that He grants paradise for your sister."
Here is sleeping your little aunty who was seven years old then.

Copyright © Md Shahadat Hossain | Year Posted 2017

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