In a corner of the room he sits motionless, watching the street.
Years ago he sat straight, a lean back like steel rods keeping him steady. He kept his eye on the street. Any minute now, he said. Any minute now.
A thousand years ago he would straighten before sitting down, pulling the knees of his jeans up and coming to rest quietly in the chair next to the window. He would settle into a gaze, lose himself in concentration, and watch the street until his young bones creaked and his eyelids scratched his vision.
He would watch sometime into the night. And when tiredness wove itself into his skin and deep into his heart, he would close his eyes and wait that way, sightless. Just feeling into the dark. Any minute now. Any minute now.
For years he waited like this. Pieces of his life all moved through their paces and had their moments and he still waited. He found a stillness next to the window and sunk in. He closed his eyes. He tasted anticipation; he memorized the razor feeling of it.
Some days were too long. Any minute now was not nearly soon enough. The air around the room grew grey and stale, and breaths exchanged for new ones were torturous, useless.
Days like this he almost gave up. Anticipation would roll around in his mouth with a bitter sameness and he’d spit it out, ruthless, restless. But he stayed by the window. He held onto the armrests until his knuckles shone bone-white in the flat light of the room.
Those days came again, and again, and often. But you were on your way. Even in the empty and bloodless days, you made your way through the streets. Even small steps carried you closer to him. And though he had no way of knowing you were on your way, he waited. Any minute now. Any minute now, for years.
And then, there you were. Pausing in the grey of the morning, shivering a bit in the cold. And he looked up, tired, and saw the light you held. He held the image of your face shining and stored it, breathless with relief, in his memory. He ignored the sound of his bones and rose from his chair. It must have taken so much trust to leave the outline of you in the window. To walk down the stairs. To open the door and pray you were still there.
And I know that although I loved you first, he loved you longer.
Now the two of you sit facing each other and let the light from the window stream in, soft and cold. He says something, and you laugh, and he stores the image away. A thousand moments of the love and asymmetry of life.
look at the stars at night,
and just think about
how many there are,
and how every star
has a planet,
orbiting around her,
and how those stars
collect into a large group,
and they form a galaxy,
and how thousands and
thousands of those
make one huge
be in love with the stars,
they'll lead you to
Is our love still love if we cannot pass through thousands of miles to have one single kiss against our cold, gray, stone lips?
If I could never get to experience the feeling of
watching the burning sunset fall and hide
behind the everlasting horizon with you.
It isn't enough to hear your voice over a microphone
or seeing your face off of late night video
calls on a blinding computer screen in the pitch dark,
only your face illuminating light into the room.
I want to feel your hand hold mine
other than grasping yours from thousands
of miles away from mine.
Distance is a saddening thing,
but the worst is that I must wait years to experience
everything I've longed for from over a ridiculous computer screen.
The weed blooms weren’t even that pretty
and the nicest thing on the ground was dead.
Gas trucks and red cars turned up the earth;
we should get out of here.
It was orange zest in the middle of doughy flour,
a risk that not many chefs take.
It was leaves from autumn, twisted
and forgotten under shoes of hikers.
It was the sunset sand art that dropped, soundly
to the ground, left for brooms and vacuums.
Outlined like the eyes of an Indian princess,
the wings left its powder matter, a footprint,
by the shoreline and asphalt.
But the Earth didn’t care;
and the weed blooms, the chefs, the hikers, the brooms,
they didn’t care. What a treacherous thing,
to take a risk when you think people care.
In touch of you,
one day, thousands of dreams grew on me
after that you left me in halfway
then little by little I have almost forgotten my dreams
forgotten that dreamy highway where there we walked together
Today I'm walking alone,
towards an unknown way,
where there I hear my wounded dreams
and my love calling me,
calling me as if they are in a trap
As if they are in a cage
where there I see a narrow way,
I never go through such a way,
little bit hazy,
and a few footsteps that I have seen
where there my dreams calling,
my lost love calling,
calling too loudly
Again I feel my heart has overflowed
floating over my lost dreams,
flooding over my lost love
I'm walking through that narrow way
little by little that sound has seemed strong,
little by little I have heard her voice to grow long
may be I am so close to my love,
so close to my dreams
my right hand moving,
moving through the dark
I try to break the shadow,
try to catch my dreams
I have become tired,
Try to take a little breath
I break the shadow,
shatter the dark
and finding her within the dark
seeking my dreams within the shadow
but I can't see anything,
Yet the clock moving on--
still I'm uttering her name
and dreaming within my thousands of daydreams
where I had left one long spring--
@Musfiq us shaleheen
হাজারো স্বপ্ন ও একটি ভালবাসা
একদিন যখন হাজারো স্বপ্ন
তারপর মাঝ রাস্তায় রেখে
চলে গেলে তুমি--
ভুলে যেতে থাকলাম সপ্ন গুলোকে,
ভুলে যেতে থাকলাম সেই স্বপ্নের রাজপথ
যে পথে হাটতাম আমরা -
আজ আমি একা
এক অচেনা রাস্তায় হাটি,
যেখানে শুনতে পাই,
আমার আহত সপ্নেরা,
আমার হারানো ভালবাসা,
শুনে যেন মনে হয়
তারা বড় অসহায়,
মনে হই তারা বন্দী,
সেখানে একটা সরু রাস্তা দেখতে পাই
এমন রাস্তায় আগে কখনো যাই নাই
খুবিই দমবন্ধ করা-
ঔইখানে কিছু পদচিন্হ দেখি
সেখানে স্বপ্নরা ডাকে,
হারানো ভালবাসা ডাকে,
উচু স্বরে ডাকে-
আবার হৃদয় প্লাবিত হয়
যা ভাসছে হারানো সপ্নের উপর
প্লাবিত হচ্চে হারানো ভালোবাসের উপর
আমি সেই সংকীর্ণ রাস্তা দিয়া হাটি
আস্তে আস্তে শব্দগুলো স্পষ্ট হয়
আস্তে আস্তে তার সুর সুনতে পাই
হইত আমি ভালবাসার খুবই কাছে
হইত সপ্নের খুবই কাছে
ডান হাত সরছে
চলছে আধারের মধ্যে দিয়ে
চেষ্টা করি ওই ছায়াকে দূর করতে
চেষ্টা করি স্বপ্নকে ধরতে
চেষ্টা করি একটু শ্বাস নিতে
মুছে ফেলি ওই ছায়া
বন্ধ করি ওই আধার
খুজি ওই আধারে ভালোবাসা
খুজি সপ্নকে ওই ছায়াতে
কিন্তু পাইনা খুঁজে কিছুই-
এখনো ঘড়ির কাটা ঘুরে
প্রতিনিয়ত তার নাম উচার্রণ করি
সপ্নদেখি শত সহস্র দিবাস্বপ্নের মাঝে
যেখানে আমি ফেলে এসেছি দীর্ঘ এক বসন্ত--
@মুসফিক উস সালেহীন
Silently I stand, losing everything I am.
A raging storm, my love, I mourn.
I devoted thousands of thoughts to you.
Thousands of daydreams.
Thousands of hopes for the future.
Thousands of smiles.
Thousands of hours thinking about you.
I loved you, I hated you. I didn't know who I was.
Now, I get to watch you live a thousand days and a thousand daydreams with someone else.
I missed my chance. I've lost you now. Wish I could get you back somehow.
Now it's over. My heart is broken, because of what I left unspoken. Unspoken.
Suddenly years have gone by,
Yet so many thoughts.
So many thoughts
That I could never fathom.
I cannot control myself
I cannot contain my feelings.
Millions of unsaid words
Thousands of untouchable,
And hundreds of distant friends.
My thoughts are scattered
Spread across many grey clouds
Soaring thousands of miles above my reach.
When will the rain fall
Of tiny puddles?
Stepped on puddles,
The cycle must begin again
As the grey clouds collapse.
We gain more puddles
And millions of people
Trapped within the cycle of life.
I look for places
And a life
That I've never even seen
Or heard of;
I am always searching.
So many people
Out of my sight,
Out of my life.
You are gone,
You are so distant
Of miles away.
You are within the clouds,
Swimming within my thoughts
Within my each and every emotion
You are far above my reach.
Many years have gone by.
Years fly by.
The unlived dreams.
She was 12
He was 8
They trailed west
But just became meat
One raped, beaten, raped and ate
The other just ate.
Shaved memories of something
Something said by somebody
Oh, a little girl
Said the sun would whirl
And the moon would bow
Means nothing to a dead and cooked cow.
They make concentric circles
In and out
Spreading goodness wherever they go...
Just after eating
A little boy and girl.
The late hours fluorescent light flicker
From the moon to the neon red lights
The scars of our fathers written on our thighs
Scared to be seen in the imminent daylight
Freelance extortionists and racketeering blacklist
Black market, black cats, capitalizing on rats
The rat race is being run by yuppies in ties
With lies and cries of spies in in the skies
Confusing their faces with ones that I like
Indecisive for lack of a vice at the peak
I scrape together letters from the people I fight
Where notes are written about the upcoming week
The world's on fire and I hold it trembling
My fingers are burning and my shoulders broken
I buckle but seconds before I go down
The world breaks open upon the cold ground
by Arcassin Burnham
Basket full of open doors,
Spitting image of asexual roses,
Washing away the sins kept in prayer,
Returning to the beauty that you’ve always been,
Suppertime in the midnight hour,
Not a right time to say I’ve seen ignorance at its coldest,
Like the saying that all humans have layers,
Unless bruised knees are kept in ice,
Don’t worry about the less passionate just look within,
Last minute discussions more like hang-ups,
All I want is cooperation from people that believe,
Forgetting where my soul went,
Then creates having lost ones self-respect,
But the emotions set to overcrowd and ……
……Perfect lack of stamina,
You want signs, but its messages that you receive,
Sitting in a room with four walls and the hours that you spent,
The only time you really have to accept and recollect,
To be admired by thousands.
For each flavour there will be
one for you and
one for me,
feel the flavour of the sun as
it trickles slowly down your tum,
does it feel quite real,or dreamy,
soft or hard or sweet and creamy?
I never tasted midnight like I tasted it last night,
sharp like a pin
sticking,picking at my skin,
don't like that flavour overmuch,
it touches in the awkward places where
memories and faces join as one and
leave that acrid taste upon the tongue.
And as I lay me down to rest,
I see and understand, that the flavour of the
morning is the best.
I say goodnight with the flavour
of what might have been,
(which tastes of Cornish clotted cream)
on my lips.