An Another New Uhan
There holds a sleepless conference in my every cell-walls
Ventilation, kit, PPI, hand sanitizer and surgical mask…
Today the termination of saving life is called isolation, home quarantine, lockdown
To give up souls to the map of humanity the fighters are well decorated at the frontline of the procession in lines…
The mortified searching for a handful soil to hope of funeral rites in this embarrassed land
The deceased body of our old mother are left in the saddest silence of the deepest forest
The solidified silence of an ambulance… All the dangerous diseases are defeated to the procession of this remediless death today…
This unexpected hard times will be readable in the history someday
The history of mankind will paint the joint flag of victory with a sweetest smile that day…
We also go back to our spending repetition by breaking the illusion of time…
We will go back to the example less record of women and child rape
To the gift of Easter Sunday’s hundreds of dead bodies
We will go back to the forest-fire of Amazon
And go back to the gorgeous handshake by covering the perpetual enmity with a fake smiling…
The citizenship will again take attempt to cross the border by being closed with the net of sectarian division…
We will sing the song of good days by the spark of changing time without any musical notation
We will go back to the tuneless sacrament of nationalism, to the crucial danger of civilization…
There would born an another new Uhan There may continue some restless self-advertisement
We will learn again washing our hand
The rotten wound will be stocked in our heart
We will wait for an another attack…
The Identity
The Identity
Wall of our room, uncountable holes are there.
The holes are covered with bamboo twigs.
At every fold of that twigs, our Jumia lives are attached with…
By flying the chiaroscuro of misty, if the brightness of refused don’t shiver the whirlpool of gesture!
For the affection of pledge
Persuaded myself, never will flee separated from you
By the meditation of avoiding the inner body from the rain of outside
For the need of buying warmth, won’t run away in search of extra coin…
My displeasure is at self-assertion White loin-cloth with attached old newspapers on the wall has increased the combined laugh of dejection…
For the preparation of hiding the deception in search for newspaper to local Jafar uncle’s shop, dusty newspapers on the corner of a big table of Samiran sir’s home…
After removing the dust, the fear of shivering gesture is escaped.
A hazy hope of spreading light awakens shyly at word, word dresses at treaty, at the play of termination…
Twenty third spring has gone…
When my mind has been immigrant, couldn’t understand…
Keep on my eyes on the page of the newspaper taking a draught to a cup of tea .
The new morning knocked at my door as a neighbour of hundred old words
The absorbedness of eyes break by the smile of the hiding holes of your sari’s bank..
Weave my mind at the fold of colourful Thami cloth, I, the Nation, float as a sub…
Searching for the rejected newspaper, the hawker knocks at the door;
So disturbed l am, say, Why you have come at this deep-noon to rouse me from sleep!
At the preparation of this talking my sleeping moment is awaked up!
The shop of Zafar uncle and the coaching center of Samiran sir are luminous as a frame of new story today You stay at home, there is no more hole on the wall…
I have to escape with the pledgelessness, I know…
By leaving you, in another Jumia life… Only the countless holes of the wall with embrace by the intertwining of childhood would be fallen there…
*Jumia= The lifestyle of an ancient tribe of hill tract in Bangladesh. Jume is one of their cultivating way./That ethnicity who spents their life by cultivaing Jume.
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