Like night, it settles upon me,
Around dawn i begin to chew my thoughts,
I put the sauce of time in this platter,
I fry memories with minced and chopped culture.
There's so much to write about you,
about me, about so many rivers, stars
towns, cities, sorrow, joy, laughter-
as they share miserable,
poorly dressed stories.
There's no one to understand this,
there's nothing assured in meaning,
They call God Dieu in french,
Maybe the aboriginals call God something else,
Why should you name someone and attach stories?
We begin to originate from this point,
And we end.
A soft melody begins to die at the end of the road,
The tambourine man has left you,
He has taken away your tattered coat
You/I begin to question, these things at dawn,
while an old physicist feels afraid of death, at night.
A poet feels afraid of time, burning bright.
A city feels afraid of cafes, at noon,
A society feels afraid of stories, and ideas.
They come and go,
Breaking and assuring again,
your status quo.
I understand i cannot hold water in my palms,
I understand I cannot hold burning coal in my hands,
I do not mean.. symbols can be frightening.
I just want to add a little mystery to my life.
Like night it settles upon me,
And I begin to chew my thoughts,
I mince and chop memories,
At dawn, it stops.

শুনেছিলাম তুমি কবিতা ভালোবাসো,
তাই তোমার জন্যে একটা কবিতা থাক
আমি দু এক কলম লিখি,
পাঁচিলে কাক, পাখির ডাক, রোমান্টিসিজম থাক

বরং তোমাকে ওদের গল্প বলি,
যারা অনেক দূরএর পাহাড়ে থাকে,
ওদের ঘর নেই, আমারি মতন,
আমি যন্ত্রনা আর কালো মেঘ এর দরজা বন্ধ করেছি,
আমি বন্ধ করেছি পুরোনো ফ্রেম এর ছবির বই,
আমি বন্ধ করেছি স্বপ্ন দেখা,

তুমি এসেছিলে, থেমে বলেছিলে,
সিগারেট পুড়ে ছাই হয়,
তবু আমি নাকি ধোয়ার মতন.

আগুন পাহাড়ে নিভে যায়,
গোটা আকাশ এর কালো মেঘ এ বজ্র বিদ্যুৎ খেলে,
সাপ এর ফনা তুলে তারারা ঝিকমিক করে এগোয়,
পিছোয়.
আমি ভাবি, আরো ভাবি
তুমি এসেছিলে , থেমে বলেছিলে,
এতো ভেবে হবে কি ?
আমি ঘুম থেকে উঠেছিলাম সবে,
আমি পাঁচিলে বসে পাহাড় বানাই,
আমি কাক এর ডাকে উত্তর দি,
ওরা সব পাহাড়ে থাকে, অনেক দূর
আমি শব্দ শিশির বোতলে বানাই সুর.

আমি ভালো আছি, তুমি আছো কেমন?
বলেছিলে ভালো..

অনেকদিন পাহাড়ে যায়নি,
আজ যাবো,
শুনেছিলাম তুমি কবিতা ভালোবাসো,
আমায় কবিতা দাও, আমি কবি হবো.

I have a car,
I have a pet,
I have a carpet.

She had a home
She gave me some work,
I did my homework.

I had a dream,
I wanted to be like...
It was all dreamlike.

Well, Life is short,
And, We had lived,
This poem is short-lived.

I'll close my eyes,
I'll walk a mile,
I'll close my eyes,
I'll not be found.

It is true, and it is false,
And again later,
I won't find my voice.
I'll close my eyes,
To my Heart's rejoice.

I have not seen, neither
Do i want,
I want what is not nothing.
I bother not, i would close my arms,
For a long time.

Long, longer time.
Take your time.
I gazed a stare,
A gazeless stare.

I think I had seen,
A box, a lot of thoughts,
To be boxed.
To be thrown out, into,
What is pretty, much for this.
I seem to endure all of them,
I think I thought,
No it is not.
I walked a mile,
For what is not,
And it was to be sought.

The sound of flesh,
The song of flowers,
A pinch of sun,
The flow of fun.
O! Blissful blogs. Time wanding.
I am wanting, walking, building.

What?  Shut the door!

I closed again,
My eyes, my heart.
I walked a mile,
To set me apart.

আমার খুব কাছের এক বন্ধু প্রায় সব সময়ই বলে- এই যে ছোট্ট জীবন টি তে, ওত সব কিছু গভীরে গিয়ে ভাবলে কোনো কাজই আর ঠিকঠাক হয়ে উঠবে না. নিতে থাকো, হজম করো, চিবিয়ে খাও--টেক লাইফ এস ইট কামস. রান ফরেস্ট রান. ব্যাপারটা সত্যিই অসাধারণ. ধরুন আপনাকে কেউ হটাৎ জিজ্ঞেস করলো-"কি মশাই? খবর কি?" আপনাকে কি কখনো অতোটা ভেবেই উত্তর দেন? সিম্পল একটা "ভালো আছি"...অথচ আপনার এই যে মাপকাঠি তে বাঁধা জীবন যুদ্ধে, আপনি এগোচ্ছেন, পিছোচ্ছেন, দৌড়াচ্ছেন, হাঁপাচ্ছেন, কাঁদছেন, ভাবছেন, এবং তার খানিকটা সমানুপাতে, অনেক কিছু অজানা, অচেনা জিনিস শিখছেন, বা হয়তো বা-- আরেকবার নতুন করে শেখবার অন্তত, আগ্রহ দেখাচ্ছেন, তাই একটা সিম্পল "ভালো আছি", তার যে সত্যিই  খাঁটি মতলবটি বাঁকা হবে তা ঠিক নয় . কিন্তু এই প্রায়োরিটি'র মিস্টিক্যাল মিস্টিরিইউস মিছিল-এ আপনার ছোট্ট এই ধুলোমাখা চেতনা টি স্থির ভাবেই চাপা পরে যায়, প্লাষ্টিক গোলাপ আর অনন্তের গল্পের মাঝখানে. কিন্তু আমি বলি এতে দুঃখিত হবার কোনো কারণ নেই. আচ্ছা একবার ভেবেই দেখুন না, এই যে পৃথিবীর গোলকধাঁধা, এই যেই এতো বড় একটা সভ্যতা, আপনি তো হাজার হাজার কারণেই তারই একটা অত্যন্ত জরুরি অংশ. বলবেন তাতে আমার কি যায় হে? সভ্যতা চলছে তার মতন, আর আমি কি এমন আর মহান কোনো কাজ পালন করছি? তার সদুত্তর এখানেই খুঁজে পাবেন. কারণ আপনি নিজেই একটা দুর্দান্ত বিশাল বিস্তার ছড়াচ্ছেন ওই আপনার একটা সিম্পল "ভালো আছি"র মধ্যে দিয়ে. আপনি জানাচ্ছেন এই গোটা পৃথিবী কে- আপনি মেনে নেন, আপনি জানাচ্ছেন গোটা পৃথিবী কে যে আপনি লড়াই করেন, প্রত্যেক ভালো থাকার মধ্যে দিয়ে, আপনি জানাচ্ছেন ভালো থাকবার উপায় খুঁজে নিতে হয়, নোকিয়া 1130 আপনার পকেটএ আর হয়তো নেই, তবে আপনার হৃদয় জুড়ে একটা বিশাল বড় "ভালো আছি" জায়গা করে নিয়েছে, সত্যিই বলছি, ডোনাল্ড ট্রাম্প আর মোদী রোজ রাত এ হয়তো ঠিকঠাক ঘুমাতে পারে না. আপনি পারেন. আপনি ভালো ভাবেই ঘুমান. বিরিয়ানি'র দোকানে সময় পেলে আর টাকা থাকলে লাইন দেন. আপনি সত্যিই তাহলে, কি দারুন একবারও ভেবে দেখেছেন? আপনি তো সত্যিই অসাধারণ! আপনি তো ভালোই আছেন মশাই..

A light, a light.
One for us,
And one for the night.

We walk, we stop,
Through these woods,
Throughout the land.

A song, a day,
Your children would play.
A thing, amiss.
Hidden away...

Going down, a garden,
A block, some memories,
A reader, an author,
A pen.

A photo, a mask,
A light, a light.

Little flowers, little time,
An Autumn comes,
The flowers die,
The laughter again,
Bids goodbye.

Imagine- a light,
A color for a night,
A light, a light.
Let it, reside.

If you miss the train,
I'm on.

Buy the next ticket,
I won't be gone.

Fire lies before you, while water lies behind-
A gentle air would help you, in case you do not find
the flame of poison, the ghost of grass
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, All are made of brass

Move ahead, wait hidden in line,
Three of us are kind,
But fire lies before you and water lies behind.

Choose unless you wish to know the unknown,
forever and forever more,
The tune and time and the ticking clock
would give you a minute four.

Did you find what's left inside?
You mustn't the hide show,
You can stand at either end,
And stare as the fluids flow.

I am not your friend, not your right,
Not even your first sight,
But as fire lies before you, and a little water
Clears the light.

Where do the birds fly?
After the last sky?

Where do the feelings go?
When there's so much to show.

What do the colors mean?
As if it never begins.

What does a limit seek?
A bird, a feeling, a colored stick?

Where do the women go?
After the evening show?

What does a man need?
A limit, a feeling an evening deed?

Where do the birds fly?
After the evening sky?

This land is mine.
I stay here, started my career.
I have seen wanderers, on this land.
I assumed they were sugar in the milk.

But if there is a brighter tomorrow,
A colour for them and us
A line to be drawn between you and me,
I assume the land would have eyes to see.

This land is mine, you're waiting for yours,
Memories are made of a political force,
The milk should be warm, and the sugar brown,
I assume you can stay in this town.

Thinking of you, I remember things,
Such as religious beliefs and suspicious inklings,
The pattern of your beard, the bleeding men in the park.
I don't know what you think,
I assume you were not sure.

This land is between an object and
An-other tryst
You're the first to comment on its beauty and on its sleeping beast,
My land depends upon the issuance of a game,
Don't worry about the troubling nature of your shame.

This land is mine, linked to many souls,
The source of warmth and of heat,
The fire resembles the state of pride,
I assume the conflict of interests would subside.

This land is mine, welcome hither,
Posters and flyers bubbling thither.

Since useful tends to be useless,
And the worth of it seems to be dead,
A message comes from the weather,
All things are counter, original and strange.

Light is fast, the mind is faster yet,
A cheetah seems to be the wind, but the wind
Pretends to soar.

A statue is tall, a giraffe pretends, to seek,
What's the use of a relative difference?
As the coordination repeats?

The sun is brighter, the camera records, the fact,
The Colors seem to call,
And keep all resplendence intact.

A healthy diet helps to grow, a blessing,
Does the same.
A rolling truck kills a shadow, the darkness kills a man.
The music of Mozart and the sound of rain,
Generates a good gorging delight,
The pattern of silk, and the warmth of fire,
Gives the direction to the night.

All things counter original spare strange,
Since useful tends to be useless.

A shadow is my friend.
As flowers never bend,
From the kitchen, I bring-
Lots of honey and wine.
I have been to the station,
In the park, in the mansion.
Like flowers without a fragrance,
My shadow never resembles, a layer.

See the desert, the snow, the rain.
See, go on to see some more.
Seeking to see the shelf of shells, alone.
Flowers and shadows do not have souls.

I am working, be patient with me,
Jingle the bell, words will fall.
The wires seem to call,
I eat and drink and sleep.

What leaves do they read?
What on earth does it mean?
Even now they all seem to have shadows,
Purchasing sugar.

Go on, go ahead, dance the antic hay,
A shadow is your friend,
As flowers never bend with what they say.

From the canon of thought,
The mind moves like a twirling body of smoke.
The leaves rustle, the breath of a cloud,
gets mixed with all his heroic deeds.

As the flow of a river continues like time
flowing, it tends to engulf the sufferer.
His bed of rocks shiver.

Balancing the proportionate use of memory,
He begins his speech.

Destruction is sustained, in motion.
Smoother is the course of action.
From the language supreme- it emanates-
The principal way.

He understands the resemblance, he presumes,
the family, the king, the extensions.
As the witnesses question-Who are you?

The irony of life kills the man,
It is the realization which remains.
His dignity is torn into pieces.

The shivering bed of rocks followed the pattern,
of an unconquerable host.
The way towards death, dusty death.

The moment recedes into the past.
The present records the past.
He was one of us.

I am close to comfort-
My lights shine.
I see the screen of words,
they seem to die, each minute.

What if the words are not sounds?
but a vision locked in my mind?
Silly questions.

I understand.
Time and more  Time
for days and works of hands.
Crescent bays, megapixels.

Zooming.

Mira is like the color of dusk,
Life without rhythm is no life,
Today she is leaving,
The dark clouds would burst.

Mira.

Mira is like my drawing book,
The pages are clad with steams of life,
She would be leaving, like a crying
dream.
I would pretend to sing a song.

Mira.

Mira is my room of mirrors and signs,
Life without meaning is no life,
I'm born a weaver, My chance of birth-
My mind is like her heart, made of sticks.

Mira.

Hope is deaf.
Thought is blind.
Afternoons pass away,
Watching clouds.

A feeling is cold,
A maddening delight-
Syrupy evenings,
Watching eyes.

Two eyes, Two,
To the days before,
The Sun is old, kind,
But fraught with noise.

Cheer up, go along,
I don't care,
I never did wrong,
Silver nights.

Amal was a friend of mine,
We were together at school-
He used to fly kites, And-
I used to stare at the sky like a fool.

Amal was a friend of mine,
We were two good friends,
He used to get the highest in Chemistry,
And teach me the relative velocity,
of trains.

I was a little slow in math,
Always had been the fool-
But Amal was a friend of mine,
And, we were together at school.

During Summer, the evenings were long-
We used to play cricket till our bodies glowed.
I was a spinner, like the soft dying cloud,
And, Amal was a friend of mine,
I used to get him out.

He first taught me that girls fall in love,
And watching **** was wrong,
As Amal was a friend of mine,
And the summer evenings were long.

We were together at school,
Amal was my friend,
Recently we are getting old,
And we don't talk about the velocity of trains.

He now keeps a goatee-
His soul demands for a job,
I start blaming the government-
While he makes me stop.

Amal was a friend of mine,
we don't meet like before,
He took a a train to go away,
And I don't understand velocity anymore.

Dream Like an idiot,
Dance like a goat.
Deep like a wound,
The future's present ghost.

When you would be dead,
There would be new flowers at your door,
Time would not stop, The soul would
stop begging.

No one would speak, Pity would bathe,
like troubled twin babies.

You would be dead, the message from lights,
stills from photos, so many things.
Dying Young, wrapped and covered, boxed,
and released.

You would be dying,
Like the slow soft treble of leaves,
at a summer's night. The Forests, The clouds,
The half eyed moon, would stop begging.

You would be dying, dying like the river,
traveling again in a realm of strange colors.

Where is the music of The sunsets? The glowing flowing-
Youth?
The delicacy, The purple hazed yellow sky?

Trust me, someday you would die.
Time would stop, souls would stop begging-
wrapped, boxed, released.

The world is a missing music box,
Where the voices are lost.
All spirits are dancing, in spaces, between-
Madness and laughter, A child's tale.

Narrate the stories and ingest the thoughts,
The world is a missing music box,
And You are not what you rather seem to be-
Your religion, Your place, Your position in between,
A lost truth and and a crooked meaning.
A child's tale.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
First as a river flowing,
then as a dawn mist glowing.
I Cannot but think of you, our souls,
like lost little clones, swimming in a pond,
With dreams to fly, I am learning that I've pride.

First as a cold winter day, I love the
gift of light.
I understand that you hate the mode,
of fright. It is easy to float, like bubbles
of wine in my throat.
I am not trending as a goat, And you are loved,
Therefore we are dreaming to fly,
I am learning that I've gorged with delight.

O! Happy days, Happy Happy days.
There was an age of suns and glory,
And heroic similes.
Fortunes favor the brave, I have been dancing,
over the grave, the gravest of thoughts,  
As an ashcan, Like a patient on a table, etherized.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.

A body needs a soul.
The flower blooms at dawn.
The motion hides a force,
A jumbled overdose.

"I am an addict.''

"What do you take?"

"Not ****** or marijuana.
Or even alcohol or acid."

" O that's awkward..."

"No I mean, I am addicted to Reality."

"As in?..."

"I expect. I dare to communicate."

A man must die.
Every evening at eight.
When he sips the coffee with,
Hot chocolate cake.

Whatever is begotten,
      Born and dies.

But A woman is not,
And I'll show you why.

A woman must be,
A picturesque deity,
Giving and taking all the
Evening in her.

The harmony, the health,
The warmest of thoughts.
A woman's a farmer
Every evening at eight.

Watching the steam,
And taking within,
The fetish of hate,
Every evening at eight.

Makes her a woman,
Who isn't born to be great.
But kind and mild,
And As timid as a cow.

A woman never dies,
For she is never loved.

Since she is born to witness
A death.
And, A man is a member of a community,
Of men.

Practising a composition,
To produce hatred.

   Every evening at eight,
With hot chocolate cake.

What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?

I hate the rising sun,
The gift of light.
I hate waking up and watching
The limbs.

Time moves on tired feet.

And, I have watched and I found
A picture of a thought.

Since, we are never loved.
And, Therefore we are.

I have eyes. Two eyes.
I have thoughts.
Thoughts, many thoughts.

I sleep, I repeat.
I begin to shine.

I add sweetness in my days.

The sea had been mine,
The Sun was all yours.
The land had been lost,
Since all Time will fly.

How would you still then deny?

The growth is a law.
The choice was my slave,
The Time will all fly,
Since they try to be loved.

How do you manage to listen about...?

The courage was all yours,
The seas had been old,
Moved like a ghost,
With a powerful voice.

How do you still manage to rejoice without food?
How do you even think when the times are not good?

And all days are but told,
The numbers are alone-
The body was my slave,
My soul is my king.

How would you manage to ever possibly begin?

Since there would be leaves,
A released reverie,
We would be there-
Perhaps a witness to this game?

How would you then manage to whisper your claims?

And all Time will all fly,
Like I said they would do-
There would be Time yet for more...
And you would look at the gates.

Would you still play this game of a battle between states?

Too Dearly, it'll be gone.
Casually alone.

"The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind.
The answer is blowing in the wind."

-- ****? You mean?

We'll begin with a box, the plural is boxes.
But the plural of ox is oxen, not oxes!
One fowl is a goose, and two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose is never called meese.

You may find a lone mouse, or a house full of mice-
But the plural of house is houses, not hice!
The plural of man is always men,
But the plural of pan is never pen-

If I speak of a foot and you show me two feet,
And I give you a book, would a pair be a beek?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't two booths be called beeth?

If the singular's this and the plural is these-
Should the plural of kiss be ever called keese?

We speak of a brother and also of brethren-
But though we say mother, we never say methren;
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his, and him-
Now imagine the feminine- She- Shis and-Shim>

~ Anonymous.

I scream to have *** with time,
A morning brings a contradiction in terms,
In between the other and all forces of allusive virtues,
The style awaits for an arrogance to bloom!

Enter Hamlet.

   O ****-
                 Exit Hamlet.

Your life is ending one minute,
At a time.
So, Beware!