Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.

that single spot, shunyo, a hole that is filled to its circumference, I drive and the sun is bigger than I’ve ever seen and orange, look directly into it or, i had to write a poem to go along with the first

While I fear whom you’ll become once you hear me, once you leave me.

Perhaps father was never taught to love.

The trust you gain takes time. 

from my blood fangs, disarrayed cold / looting my sore body / that has done so much for me, while I ached

I wonder where God sits in that tower. I wonder whose cries are louder.

From moon beamed mountains  To plains deltaic; In Diasporas–detached 

This poem has been translated by the author from Zahir Raihan’s poem, ‘Kotogulo Kukurer Artonad’ on account of the novelist, writer and filmmaker’s birth anniversary.

The burst of fragrant marigolds on the blanched porch of our old Calcutta home, free like sand, unbridled like the wind

To sit on thy laurels seems apposite, Yet to dig graves for perceptive pleasure resemble a breach Of lines bridging the things learned, unlearned.

We walk past the singing bells and our chambers, Blind to the perils beyond our walls.

I am from the 19 houses in 15 districts, none of which could become "my home, sweet home"  

The motor car is always a thing of darkness, In the sun and lighted roads of day And in the luminous gas at night though 

I frolic and burrow myself inside the vastness of the fields And the prairies that stand tall Of spaces heavily concentrated, and then stretched out to infinity

Clouds in heaven bow and billow around your feet, and you- glide through, oblivious to their ethereal presence.

The theocracy is crumbling in its seat

Nothing is meaningless if speech and silence  fill void, flowing in the same force, and no one blocks the road to dreaming.

I tried to be renamed in the middle  But my van and I have never been apart!

I see you, with whatever half awake, sleep drifting irises, I see you. Dusted in the shelves of unread books, I see you and I know you, They will never know you but I do, in ways you are afraid.