I train myself not to meet their eyes— those begging at corners,

In the hush—footsteps fill the laden streets, .grasshoppers teeth to return home. Veiled divine mother, .she blooms in shards—from under the rain.from beyond the sallow moon.in her lion’s gait… tidal sorrow pushing through .your swallowing metropolitan heap. .

I wake up to the smell of coral jasmine Those mushrooms in my garden of dreams.

I have become the smoke .In someone’s teacup at 8,.The quiet breeze that flickers a candle–.before the call to prayer..Dhaka, you burned me to ash.And tried to mold me like Hephaestus .As if I were your forged blade,.Your myth-woven metal..But stil

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

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

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

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,