chandrolokogeetikay firti pothe, moonlit sonata
May was ambling toward the campus, today there is a sunlit blessing about the morn. In case one lowers the gaze, one would find a sudden welcome of a sparrow hopping on the walkway, and if one looks upward, one would ponder about the clear blue pristine sky, eternally humble belonging to the vicinity of heaven. The divinity is relentless about cosmic and cosmos, microscopic organism and the globetrotter acrobatics of the troubadour time, distant voices, on the floating floral rayon drifted afar, the tossing and turning soaring wind would drift those, uplift those, from here to there, clueless to a stranger, estranged and alone, the soul left behind the prayer rug space, the time of the unsung ishraq, intending for a blessed today, people stroll out, for many diversified reasons. Tidy professionals, family persons, nomadic vagabonds and also those city personnel, busy in the road network and dimensions of the proposed exhibits of the networking survey questionnaires and those answers. And with all these, I must also say, that poets also do walk. And with that grace, poems too. With a poem the poet, or with the poet, the poem, that is a tantalizingly hot topic for debate, apparently knick knack issue room, a recess for the other day.
"I am crying, see? Tear drops are trickling down my chicks."
May was insisting. August is a bit off the rack, whimsical. He is not always a Meriam webster appendix, painless and so.
"The melodrama of a Bangladeshi playwright is a bit clichéd tiresome effort, do you know why? The salty teardrops knit the most flawless story around the distilled water, while your intertwining butterfly in time management would allot you two minutes at most, or even less than that. Quite a tiring effort, is it not?"
He was talking. His attire was a wrinkle free plain and placid cotton shirt, and an easy going gabardine pant, nothing extra ordinary. May with all her hard core efforts could not stipulate an iron board about the gabardine pant and she had to admit at the end of the day that all she could do to strengthen the robustness is to clean and wipe the relentless efforts, a preserved perseverance for another daybreak.
"We are mundane efforts built up of everyday, when is that?"
May heard the question.
"A deeper introspection could be helpful about that, all about that. We are dandruff of mundane, predestined to feel brushed away with renewed time, germs of the vulnerable fallibility of memory lane, or a rare raindrop on the folded Tangail silk, neatly folded on the niche. Thinking faculty, think tank thinking through out, when everything is a sundried sealed , predestined in the past, long before, one way or the other."
May was busy in listening. She was the least expected ranking possibility to mark today with a debating theme.
"All you are telling me is that my house is an obscure, and as an evocation you are failing with the initiation with harut, marut and Bairut with your hotline discord, somewhere in Khartoum as you are already acted up with misfit, mismatch, asynchronous soliloquy, assuming way high and way fine, with a suntanned fig protocol seal able?"
She questioned at last, a slow and turtle stroke. And a silence, lasting there, for quite a long time.
"Why are you thinking like that, along that understanding?"
The counter question also landed, gently, with a permissiveness.
"Your references are all misunderstood, bizarre, these are all frequencies of outliers, usual frequency, day to day frequency and at a point, mortified and petrified with all these seasoned amplifiers. With all those traceless phone calls treated like weeds in inventories off good morale and robust frame, they label you in retracing a niche, they define you as a persona. Am I a gerund along the designated recipient end?"
May was weighing those words, unmindfully, voided and speechless, as if the fallen utensils would sound with a cacophony about that lentil mixed curry, the one supposedly sitting further with a dimmed lead.
Then again with a non sticky bolster clue!
(TBD)
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