Rising Sun
In the winter morning
Diamond fogs play on spiky grasses.
The rising sun is my friend then.
Not pigeons but crows flying on this town
In winter, the feathers are crystal black.
Then cawing is my morning song.
Town streets of dawn are not alone.
Female garments workers are busy.
Like the butterflies after blooming fresh flowers
My country is my pride for the hard workers.
This world is my heaven for welfare inventions.
The winter helps me to see the rising sun of life.
-20.12.2020 Chattogram
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