the guilt
the sin
the hatred within

thinking if we disguise our hair
in an obscure form of veil
they will conceal our madness

thinking if our skin prevails
after years of stacking knitwear
they will shred our sadness

then asking us why are we so vain?
why do we masquerade our emotions to keep us sane?
when all your attempts strives to conceal what’s underneath
underneath that cloth you call a veil
underneath that skin you use for sale

the morals
the virtues
the lies you preach

It is just another mask you wish to keep

Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!

Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.

Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.

What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.

What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?

Poetry lives in a person’s head but
Sometimes it is very lonely
Because in the heads of some
There is nothing to keep it company
And so poetry goes out through the pen
And the thumb clicks send

peace with
web masticate
her in
these parts
of fire
that sit
on this
scarf and
interpret wisdom
with the
beast hitherto
while hers
from the
fleece go
to the
heart of
law bestowed

Not once upon a time but now
among most innocent ones,
an Arabian voice is buried
in the thick wall of bricks
furnished with glory,
floating in the oasis of money.

Yet, when it switches to it's origin
then maybe is a poor Arab speaking.
Still the rest of the world
                                 can forget the oil
                           it's no sad story anymore
the sand beneath his feet shines
                                 brighter than the gold!