Winters feel less like winters, the sun burns on my fragile skin. December. Tell me it’s

What do you carry in your heart’s bundle? A lineage?

Ami chiratare dur-e chole jabo.(I will go far away forever).I’ll go far away forever—.yet I won’t let myself be obliviated..I’ll turn air to knot your hair.when the bun gets loose..Immersed in your tune.when the sky dozes, wind weeps,.with teary ey

“What will come out of all this?” The day starts with the devil flying overhead,

Do you remember the sunset on the 18th of July? What colour was it?

Summer has imprinted crow’s feet under my eyes, .Yet I have aged only a quarter. .That’s was when .I dunked myself—starting with the crown of my head—into the ocean where The southern sun resides, to imprint upon my face its sheen, .rhythm of miracles, and to honour it wi

Always the same whining about the distances, always the same

The air tasted of burnt sugar and broken vows–sweetness clinging to the char. It began with a whisper, then the slow, inevitable searing of what we believed was solid ground.

and for every grave / a firefly burns / and for every grave / Dhaka never learns

Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief

And I realised: / even in the line to hell, / waiting for punishment, / we'd still reach for chanachur. / We'd still find comfort / in the crunch of survival

Patience, like moss, that grows on red soil. Conversations with friends, like inadequate breakfast.

It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else

There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights

I am not a single name. Not a single wound.

Grey chips of rough cement  Rust rubble all around,

This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,

So go in peace, be free, be kind.

I cannot tell you that I want to be intoxicated, inebriated, and stashed away for the rest of eternity while holding your hand at the mediocre fair in the middle of the crowd of ill-mannered school-children who grew up too soon

It said, 'You've brought a return ticket with you friend / Remember, people are not meant to be held onto.'