Hey Nari

Amar jibon tomrai bhoriye tulecho. Tomaderi adhikar sudhu amar opor.
Tai tomaderi janyo...


Hey nari,
Amar randhre randhre,
Rokte, nihswas e tomari abirbhab;
Tomari murti gore uthche
Nityo notun, agnibha surjodoye.
Mayar poshom, tomar sparsha
Jeno mithe jamrul, harano sur
Bheshe ashe batasher konay konay.

Amar otha nama, gore tola,
Bhangoner protighater dola,
Satyi mithyer gondi perono khela;
Tumii amar math, triner ahswas
Ghorshone rangiyechi tomar dirghoswas
Tomar ramdhonu, barshar purbabhas
Tomatei bileen ei agneogirir nihswas.

Hey nari,
Jekhane samasta mishe jay samasta-e
Sei andharer alo tumi,
Sei aloy amay mishiyecho aj ebhabe
R je firte parbo na ami chena achenay;
Thakte dao mukto ei sudur sunyotay
Fire esho, amake pabe thik ei alochayay.

Uttor, aj uttor nei

ভেজা তুলোয় মুখের এ রং ফ্যাকাশে হলো  কি না?
স্বব্দের ছক ভেঙে গুটি পকেটে পড়লো কি না?
উত্তর, আজ উত্তর নেই বন্ধ ঘরে মুখ লুকোনো খাট
চোরা নদীর স্রোতের মরীচিকায় শুধু পুড়েছে হাত।

কেন বলে দাও আমায়, কেন বলো না আমায়?
জোনাকির স্নিগ্ধতা খুঁজে ফের কেন এ ভোরবেলায়?

রেখো না এ বালুচরে ফল্গুর কোনো আশা
টিমটিমিয়ে জ্বলছে কোথাও ভবিষ্যতের চাষা
মোমবাতির ঘাম জমেছে, আগুন নিভতে যায়
রাজার বেড়াল পোষ মেনেছে, ইলেকট্রিসিটি খায়।

কেন বলে দাও আমায়, কেন বলো না আমায়?
কলমের মুখে কথাগুলো কেন বাষ্প হয়ে যায়?

To you asshole

I do not write for you. I do not spend my time hitting these buttons on my favourite machine in order to gain some fucking reader's sympathy. No. Every second spent on these little pieces on my blog is for myself. I think and I write. I do not think and write. I eat and write. I work and write. I fantasize and write. I lie and write. I confess and I write. And then you arrive. Nobody knows from which shit canal do you come with your stink and lay your waste on my blog. I feel no empathy for you as a reader. I feel no hatred. I feel nothing. Everytime I shit here, you develop those marvelous wings!
There'a very funny thing about being a writer. He gives no shit at times. Yet you would still come flocking with all your senses. Fuck your senses.
Whoever you are, going through this garbage at this moment, really how jobless can you be? There is no new world in someone else's words. Your world, my world, their world are all the same dystopian reality that you refuse to wake up to. The game is over. There is no writer here who will tell you princess stories, dragon stories or give you life lessons. He is no story teller. He isn't telling you who he is either. Only a fool in a fool's paradise thinks that a writer hides behind his words. No he doesn't. He hides in himself. And he sees through you.
While reading this if you do feel like replying, fuck you. I don't give a damn about your opinion. I don't care what you like and what you don't. Nothing matters you see. There are only two truths about me : the good and the bad. The good adjusts with you. You adjust with the bad.

So best, fuck off.

And there is no frustration pointing towards you. I just don't care. Have some sense to keep your opinion to yourself. I repeat, fuck off.

Forgotten Breeze

And when the days feel numbered
In the dusty obedient time crystals,
You arrive like ripples of the shore
With touch of the warm and the cold;
Sand underneath, careless grains of gold
Like a known history or a prophecy untold
You are the only young reason for the old.

My tiny heart and the universe it holds
Learn to expand each time I behold
The simplicity with which you've written
How these mysteries should unfold...

May answers never arrive at my doorsteps
May the boat keep floating through the night
May the guiding light never play hide and seek
That is, given its nature if at all it decides to peek
But who am I in this already bent space-time?
How at all will then my innocent ride make its flight?

May you keep reminding me that I am alive
May you keep returning, my forgotten breeze.

Undertaker's Bay

Dark, foreboding clouds gather on the horizon

As the ship steals its way through the moonlit haze

Winds, like cold steel daggers circle the Orion

Sails prepare for onslaught, amateur hands on deck.

The musician starts strumming way up in the mast

An island, an Oasis for the navigators of the black

And a symphony of disorganized optimism greets the wind

The Pole star has long vanished, rain descends on faith.

Whirlpools and werewolves sync to the crescendo

Gods, in Angels' attire play actors in a stage of floating time

As raindrops burn red, yellow, purple and white; 

O! Where do loyalty, belief, data and signatures lie?

While the tempest leads the ship to the eye of creation

Some hands leave the steering for a blindfold game.

In the darkest nosedives are the stories dug out,

The treasure resides beneath the Undertaker's Bay.