Across the seas, where dreams take wing,
My heart sails softly to you, Li Jing.
From Bengal’s shore to Hong Kong’s hue,
I found my pleasure , my light — in you.
Your name, Li Jing, what a gentle song,
In every note everywhere , I feel I belong.
The stars above seem all aware,
They blink your name across the air.
When I see you by the seashore walk,
Or on a horse in grace you talk,
My heart turns wild, my eyes grow deep,
Emotions wake always, I cannot sleep.
Your voice — a breeze of tender art,
That whispers peace within my heart.
Your eyes — two lanterns warm and kind,
That chase the shadows from my mind.
Each dawn I write your name anew,
In poems dipped in morning dew.
O Li Jing, dear Tina, my heart’s refrain,
Your smile outshines the monsoon rain.
From Bangladesh to your bright shore,
This bond shall bloom forevermore.
For in my soul, one truth shall ring —
I love you deeply, dear Tina, Li Jing.
Midnight 23 October 25
When you feel sick, shadows take their place,
I long to hold you, touch your gentle face.
Yet barriers rise, unseen but firm and tall,
They keep me distant, though I give my all.
I dream of walking through the stormy air,
To whisper comfort, show how much I care.
But fate erects a wall I cannot cross,
And every step feels heavy with its loss.
Still in my silence, prayers surround your bed,
Soft wings of hope will circle where you tread.
Though I am far, my spirit stays so near,
It fights the distance, conquers doubt and fear.
When sick fades, may sunshine warm your sky,
No chains, no walls, no shadows to deny.
For then, at last, my love will freely flow,
Beside your soul, the place I long to go.
Tonight Chumki drifts to a gentle sleep,
And with her the poems their silence keep.
No murmur of verses, no whisper of rhyme,
The hours move slowly, unmeasured by time.
The stars look down with a softened gaze,
Darkness enfolds in its velvet haze.
No chatter of stanzas, no lyrical sound,
Only the hush of the night all around.
Dreams weave quietly in silver streams,
Guarding the doorway to tender dreams.
The restless lines lie still and deep,
For even the muses have gone to sleep.
Yet in the silence, a promise lies near,
That dawn will awaken the songs we revere.
When Chumki wakes, her smile will rise,
And poems will flutter once more to the skies.
Oh, land of rivers, lush and green,
A tapestry of beauty, serene.
Fields of gold, where farmers toil,
Life springs forth from your fertile soil.
Your skies sing with birds in flight,
Your days are warm, your stars alight.
The Padma flows with stories untold,
Of courage, freedom, hearts of gold.
From Dhaka’s streets to Sundarbans wild,
Nature and culture are beautifully styled.
The roar of tigers, the whisper of trees,
Echo your spirit across the seas.
Your people stand, both strong and kind,
With dreams that no chains can bind.
Born of struggle, yet full of grace,
A beacon of hope, a proud embrace.
Oh, Bangladesh, our motherland,
Forever cherished, forever grand.
With love we walk, with pride we say,
For you, our hearts will always stay.
When you are too cool,
And we are dangerously fool!
When you are too good,
And we are mistakenly rude!
When you are going to forgive,
And we are going to dive in the ocean of deceitful bliss!
When you erroneously allow us to speak,
And we are going to attack you at your peak!
You call us "the collaborators",
You kill us by the disgraceful gladiators,
You keep us safe by biased words,
You provide us bliss with the disguised curse.
Until you live long in the blissful hell,
Until you confine us in the glorious jail,
Until you can be refined in your guilty conscience,
Until you rebuke us for our misguided sense.
We are united as your crown is denied,
We are guilty as you are still our guide.
We are ashamed that we didn't know our mind,
That is why you can still rule us and deride.
Am I light or dispersed star
Scatter or straight to all earthly uneven
Whether the stray comet to unfollow
Chaos or chord to sundry upheavals
Mortal cry pebbles the enshrined path
Luminious moon guide where gleam
Wise that turn to sightless wanderer
Eternal furnace alloy even those flak
Whip of whims encage all beacons
Noble deeds dacay ,utterly numb
Trying our morale in turbulence of time
Comforts or clutter of needs ,indefinite
Men walk towards golden or grey gates
Surrender in mounting rungs and ropes
Dreams shatters like lifeless dunes
Homeless sands beneath benevolent sun
Arrays of aim pierce like pungent arrows
Win or wane for fit to survive in moor world
Featherless souls in sheer free fall;
Can there be ceaseless outbound fountain?
That fearless and frisk in favors
Solo my spirit sway all silos earth bring
Let mind sleeps sight on alpine snow
The genial breeze to free and glow
Altar the heart with care to unrest
Torch of mankind ablaze with brave
Holy human share blessings that unbent
Wish the nourishing rain to furtile and flow
Generous greats render and row.
Breath the brine in waves and wind
Sheer trips that vigil and vile
Brave who conquer and will
Break the wave thousand times.
They wish to steel in steady
They command snake to crawl
Heave the spirit in obscure decend
Pave the gold in gaudy shine.
Hail the ignite that spark unshiver
The grass they seed when arid arise
Kiss the land with motherly lips
Give the smile with benevolent divine.
Gaily sun that welcomes all woe
Raise the flag amid raging foe
Frown death within tyrrant brows
Dare to die in soldiers chime.
The unbent peers let not shiver
Words of viking one victor and valor
Endless voyage to settle ahead
Albatross shore the celestial paradise.
I like your new outfit
You look really smart mate
One could almost say
You're a real fashion plate.
Wearing new clothes can give
You real bird pulling power.
Over in Bangladesh they pay
Just forty eight pence an hour.
That's where are a lot of
Our cheap clothes are made,
In a modern variation of
The sweated labour trade.
Its not just the Cheap Shops
In this exploitation game
Some of the Designer Firms
Are involved just the same.
Bangladesh is too far away
For us to really worry
And besides modern life
Moves at such a great hurry.
Wearing cheap clothes
Can feel so very nice
At times we should remember
Somebody pays theprice:
Sometimes in the shop we
Could maybe give a thought
To the true cost of the gear
We’ve just so casually bought
In the last freported factory fire
Over a hundred maimed or dead,
Just ordinary Bangladeshis
Trying to earn their daily bread.
1952. Curfew was on and roads were vacant.
Some armed hands were still haunting there
To hush every possible roar or uprising rant
With the spiteful hammer of thunderous fear.
But a murmur of revolution was soon heard
As thousands of spirited people marched on
With the resilience of restoring their barred
Language from the threshold of extinction.
They protested peacefully carrying placard
Of their clauses until the armed hands fired
And soaked them with blood in vain to retard
Undying voices that can never be smothered.
Each drop of the sacrificial blood has built
the monument of revolution that will always
Shine as a star of Devotion and forever quilt
The vigorous souls with its contagious rays.
Their immortal death blazed a fire of liberty
in hearts that were in the grip of oppression.
Soon, it became a furnace that burned Deity
Of Oppression and Bangladesh was born.
Marrakech and Bangladesh
My recall's not that fresh...
On to the parts of the limbic system
In school, I usually missed 'em
Quarks, photons, bosons, and gluons
Art class? Cut and paste?
All that stuff you're supposed to learn
~ Seems like quite a waste
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??????? ??????? ????? ???? ??????????? ?????????? ???!!
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August comes, reminds
Of Nation's Father
Green field still holds the fresh blood!
-Thursday, August 1, 2019 Chattogram
Is it you?
Not me it is
I am convincing,
It is for you
Someone is watching,
And the expected Moon
Is getting closer in the afternoon!
It is the Dwarf's rejoice
To extend his hand always,
Never to catch, it is not realizable.
There was a lady from Bangladesh,
Who wanted a bath to become fresh,
So she dived into a river,
But felt herself shiver,
So she swam in a thick woolen dress.
There was an old man of Bangladesh,
Who watched his wife making Shandesh.
But once, by mistake,
She made a cake
What an unfortunate man of Bangladesh!
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