No river remembers the exact moment it became a river. It remembers rain, perhaps.

The Little Boy.He sold magic .mostly for free, .wrapped in candy wrappers, .joy and spring-coloured rosettes, .and, at times, priced at .a few tufts of dandelion threads.

Sufia herself faced no trouble for having her photograph printed, but her poem did create difficulties.

If every leaf that falls is a memory you’ve forgotten, then let my ink become rain— so you might remember how it felt to grow with me.

The torn tune of a broken violin.Signifies the evanescence of joy..So many faded voices intermingle .This day and the night. .Moonlight has disappeared .In the sky overcast with commingled clouds. .The wind is sombre with the sadness .Of Bismillah’s ‘she

In the hush—footsteps fill the laden streets, .grasshoppers teeth to return home. Veiled divine mother, .she blooms in shards—from under the rain.from beyond the sallow moon.in her lion’s gait… tidal sorrow pushing through .your swallowing metropolitan heap. .

Winters feel less like winters, the sun burns on my fragile skin. December. Tell me it’s

What do you carry in your heart’s bundle? A lineage?

Ami chiratare dur-e chole jabo.(I will go far away forever).I’ll go far away forever—.yet I won’t let myself be obliviated..I’ll turn air to knot your hair.when the bun gets loose..Immersed in your tune.when the sky dozes, wind weeps,.with teary ey

“What will come out of all this?” The day starts with the devil flying overhead,

and for every grave / a firefly burns / and for every grave / Dhaka never learns

Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief

And I realised: / even in the line to hell, / waiting for punishment, / we'd still reach for chanachur. / We'd still find comfort / in the crunch of survival

It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else

Something you may... You may never find again.

My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.

We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun

There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights

I am not a single name. Not a single wound.

Grey chips of rough cement  Rust rubble all around,