In a hidden realm beyond the edges of the world,  
There was once a kingdom called Shiro,  
A name whispered like forgotten memories in the wind,  
Life’s stories vanished into the void—  
As light as a bird’s feather in the shadow of the gray mountains,  
Like the pale sorrows that blanketed the kingdom’s edges.  

But Shiro, the child of a Phoenix,  
Stood on the unknown soil of those silent plains—  
Where winter leaves quietly fell,  
As if offering a secret sign of sorrow.  
Shiro knew the song of rebirth echoed deep within his heart,  
Where seeds of dreams were planted as the black night thickened.  

One day, beneath the gray sky,  
Shiro saw the fields of dreams—  
Everything was bathed in the quiet light of eternal stars.  
The stars called out to him,  
“This land will be born again from the womb of emptiness.”  
Shiro believed, even in the cold grip of death,  
That one day a flower of fire would bloom,  
That the storm of flames within him would rise again.  

And then, like a Phoenix,  
Shiro hid his old sorrows beneath his wings,  
The ashes of old dreams—  
From which the seeds of a new world would grow.  
Like a Phoenix, his past burned away,  
And a new life was born from the womb of emptiness.  
It seemed as if a song of fire burned in the air around him.  
So, was this fire always within him?  
Or was there a dormant dream hidden beneath the soil?  
Shiro asked this with every breath—  
In each sleepless night, his dreams played silent tunes,  
As if they knew his future.  

Shiro felt a new life rising from the earth,  
Before he turned to ashes,  
He planted the seeds of his life beneath the ground—  
Hidden beneath the wings of the Phoenix was a secret story,  
And under each feather lay fragments of dreams.  

In their shadow, he birthed a new history,  
As if he always knew his flame would never die.  
The stars once told Shiro,  
“You are eternal, like the rebirth of the Phoenix.”  
Shiro knew then that time would never touch him.  
Yet he would be born again, only to burn once more—  
In this cycle of rebirth, he would live immortal,  
As if he were a story carried on the winds of an ancient tale.  

And still, Shiro’s dreams remained silent,  
As if they were waiting for the seeds to be planted again,  
To build a new life under a new sun.  
Shiro asked himself,  
“What tune plays in this life, what dream floats in this world?”  
He found his answer within the shadows,  
Where the sky touched the earth,  
Where fire and shadow merged into one.  

Written on his Phoenix wings was a map of dreams—  
A map leading to a silent city,  
Where stardust floated in the air,  
And within each speck, a new world lay hidden.  
Shiro knew that within this world,  
There was always a fire of rebirth hidden deep.  
So, does everything come from fire?  
Or does something new begin from the ashes of every life?  
Shiro thought then that perhaps each of his dreams  
Would bloom again like a flower of fire,  
Burning away old memories,  
Giving birth to the shadow of a new day.  

And yet, within him, an immortal tune would always play—  
As if he had witnessed every birth of the world,  
As if he had seen every rebirth of the Phoenix.  
So, is the Phoenix’s seed like a dream?  
Hidden beneath the earth,  
Waiting for those who can only see the flowers of fire.  

One day, Shiro planted that seed,  
Where his flame and shadow merged.  
Then he knew that this world would never end—  
Life would be born again, from the ashes,  
And written on every Phoenix’s wing  
Would be a new story of dreams.

May humanity rise in the flames of tolerance,  
Clearing the clouds of discord, strengthening unity's pillars.  
Let tender beams of compassion glow within,  
Piercing through the darkness of hatred to kindle the light of harmony.  
May tolerance’s pure form erase the stains of strife.  

In the pulse of empathy, let seeds of connection root within,  
Casting out shadows of inner conflict, lighting strength in rays, guiding each to their path.  
Break down all walls of division, binding souls in warm ties.  
Let every corner be fragrant with timeless emotions,  
In the quiet love, let endless equality flourish, safeguarded within the heart.  

May tolerance shine forth, a beacon of hope,  
Cleansing the shadows of malice with purity’s essence, dispelling division and doubt.  
Let the smooth flow of generosity course its wondrous current,  
In the pristine glow of a humble heart, shatter chains of separation.  
From calm breezes, let rare murmurs of peace drift softly.  

Let the lamp of tolerance cast its eternal light, binding the world in seamless harmony.  
Gardens fill with perennial festivals; the fragrance of life dispels distances.  
Hot colors of discord blend in the touch of bright awareness;  
In roots, sow seeds of benevolence, forming a timeless ground amid opposing winds.  
Let the chariot of love bring pure air; beneath fragrant trees, embrace tolerance’s shade.  

Break the cruel pain of division, let the mirror of conscience light up,  
Sculpt humanity in the fabric of timeless grief, flowing in an unbroken melody.  
Touch the void of discord with pure, heartfelt amity,  
Spreading reflections of love across the boundless sky.  
May the blessings of gentleness rain upon the journey’s path, in joyous unity of humankind.  

At the call of tolerance, let a dreamlike world emerge,  
With the birth of eternal joy, let love’s embrace release all knots of sorrow.  
In the hope of tolerance, may each soul discover the peace of bound union in life’s depth,  
Upon the path paved with heart’s blooms, let eternal love echo in voices pure.  
Let all bonds drift in infinite flows, humanity’s bowed head aglow in tolerance’s sacred light.

Promises wrapped in a web of dreams, hidden beneath the facade of lies,  
The path soaked in the people’s tears, governance is nothing but hypocrisy.  
I’ve rushed to your shelter, you’ve come to mine,  
This is how politics plays its twisted mime.  

Promises when needed, lives are mere tokens of joy,  
The wait never ends, new strategies break each day.  
The helpless cry, heavy is the sky,  
A parade of corpses in the city’s heart, while rulers laugh with innocence on display.  

The royal palace stands on the blood of the people, dust of despair coats the streets,  
Justice is sold in the name of law, the land has turned into a field of greed.  
Election games are nothing but a farce, the citizens' hearts tremble with fear,  
The ballot box rigged with deceit, democracy bound in chains of inequality severe.  

A mother stands weeping by the road, waiting endlessly,  
When will her child return?  
Politics tells the tale of exploitation written in blood,  
No one keeps count.  
Golden promises, hollow within, the sound of shattered dreams echoes,  
Leaders come and leaders go, yet the people remain neglected, low.  

In the eyes of the jobless youth, only resentment resides,  
Fields drenched in promises of rain, but no crops arise.  
Words laced with venom create new temptations,  
Beneath the glitter lies the mark of suffering.  
The mask of politics unveils, sinking everything into the darkness within.  

Mountains of injustice rise, stifling the voice of truth,  
Power is seized by the hands of deception,  
Scars of betrayal cut deep,  
The chains of oppression know no release,  
Freedom knocks, but the people, trapped in delusion,  
Find no address for hope, no relief.  

Leaders wear masks, changing with the times,  
We keep running, chasing new hope lines.  
I’ve rushed to your shelter, you’ve come to mine,  
This is how politics plays its endless mime.

A fleeting, floating, unsettled bird, searching under the blue sky’s shadow,  
Blending with the winds of the heart, it silently hides in the horizon’s bustle.  
Like a star in the night sky, it dashes toward endless dreams in the blink of an eye,  
The wings of the bird carry memories of the past, flowing like a river's current.  

It hides in the folds of the waves, soaring freely on an unknown path,  
Blending into the clamor of the clouds, every silent cry becomes the echo of unreachable dreams.  
It never returns, endlessly searching for the riddle of joy in the vast sky.  

Its colorful light fades into the horizon, the past’s charm turns to gray,  
In solitude, it returns to its own shadow, disappearing far into the darkness.  
The air wrapped around its wings swirls, returning to brush against the feathers of a nearby bird.  

Under the shimmering moonlight, with glimmering wings, it hears the call of an unknown path,  
Flying away with eyes full of wonder, toward the distant, infinite boundaries.  
The peaceful river of the lonely night plays with the waves of the water,  
Drawing silent lines in the sky, indifferent and carefree.  

Silent voices float in the wind, seeking a destination beyond the horizon,  
Falling briefly on the unknown path, at the gates of emptiness.  
This fleeting, unconquered bird, shimmering in the light of the stars,  
Spreads its wings in the wind, breaking through the shadows of the silent night,  
Carrying the songs of imagination on the wings of dreams.

Upon this vast field of crops, the sunlight gently falls,  
Dreams scatter across the earth, touched by the farmer’s hands,  
Life blooms in raindrops, golden dawn awakens in the rice sheaves,  
In the soft caress of the breeze, the grains sway,  
The soil, deep with love, embraces them whole,  
In every particle, an unseen rhythm of time flows,  
A ceaseless call of life beckoning on.

The weary farmer gazes into the fog's abyss,  
In the corner of his eye, untold stories of the future linger,  
On the dry earth, he leaves a mark of hope,  
With each strike of his hand, the crops break, the cycle unfolds,  
Deep within the soil, the memory of time, the marks of a struggle to live.

Life floats across the fields of endless grain,  
On each golden spike, the tale of struggle is inscribed,  
Pride fills the boundary of this hopeful land,  
With the farmer’s sweat, the harvest blooms,  
In his toil, the prose of survival is written.

This vast field of crops is the fulfillment of his life,  
In each drop of sweat, golden hope stirs awake,  
With every step, the farmer builds a promise to endure,  
From his labor, a new world is born,  
And the field of love stands as the ultimate proof,  
The pinnacle of his life’s worth.

In the depths of the heart, the fire of rebellion burns bright, not just destruction, but the joy of creation,  
Waves of unrest break, giving rise to pure desire, birthing peace.  
In the silence of weeping, struggles are born, carrying the radiant light of hope,  
Invisible dreams weave through the streams of blood, washing away old memories.  

The fire of rebellion isn’t just a symbol of destruction; in its flames, new horizons are built,  
Hearts as hard as stone crumble under the weight of sorrow, blood-soaked wars veiled in the mist of grief.  
Unbearable pain transforms into strength, the tale of a new world being rebuilt,  
The emptiness of rebellion, cleansed by the blood of the rebel, brings back the winds of peace, the sun of freedom.  

Not the shadow of sorrow, nor the sound of war, but love hidden in the buds of flowers,  
In the flames of fire, invisible dreams awaken, painting the future in the hands of time.  
The struggles wipe away the scars of the past, reviving the message of a new dawn,  
The rage of the earth reveals itself in the yellow harvests of peace.  

The flame of rebellion erases weariness, guiding us to the peak of freedom,  
Silent prayers, deep in the heart, weave tales of rebirth,  
In the darkness of night, the sound of weeping merges with the ocean of peace,  
Rebellion is not just a symbol of hurt, it transforms into wings of desire, creating a new horizon.  

Eyes filled with emptiness, the day's vow seeks release in the calm beauty of everlasting peace,  
The journey of rebellion does not stop, it waits for the infinite ocean of tranquility.  
In the sky of war, the sun rises with the light of peace, transforming aspirations into reality,  
Rebellion becomes a symbol of peace, transformed hopes and desires lighting the path to a bright future.

By Azahar Raza

From the earth’s forgotten vulture, They return with a thirst for blood,  
Awakening in the skies of Bengal, New wings unfurling—silent and cruel.  
A toxic breath spreads like fog over the dry grass,  
In the river of crime, the dreams of generations float, Vanishing along the path of light.  

Their heavy shadows cut through the azure skies,  
Shrouding the future in a cloak of despair,  
Hearing the cries of the weak, they return with insatiable hunger,  
Counting the deaths of rights, blood, and the green leaves of life.  

On the boundless fields, their breath releases poison,  
In the broken corners of the fields, they seek the scent of weakness,  
The delusion in the eyes, the satiated vultures chew on Bengal’s soil,  
The fields tremble with the groans of the dying people.  

A world of hope, like a wanderer on a confused path,  
Stands silently beside humanity’s grave in the dark of night,  
Where will anyone flee? Today, who knows where to hide—  
The vultures perch unmoving above everyone’s head.  

Slowly, they tear apart our dreams each day,  
Pouring poison into every breath, creating more emptiness,  
In the womb of time, the green fields fade, the azure sun flies,  
Today, the sky of Bengal sways like a grave of crimes.  

The vultures return again and again, cloaking the green pastures and dreams,  
The mark of endless hunger; every particle of the land trembles under savage feet,  
The dreams sink into the depths of a void, buried beneath the struggle to survive,  
The voice of humanity remains muted, waiting in the silence of night.  

This sky of Bengal, the breast of mother earth—  
Will it ever awaken to their cries, signaling a curse?  
The dead vultures will return to their own dark abyss,  
Spreading the melody of love and integrity across the land of Bengal.