Dilruba Z. Ara

Magic boys and girls of Bangladesh, I love you.

One early morning, before the sun’s ascent, Stood a red bud in my front lawn.

Death dwells between is and was, Riding the final particle of a fading breath.

Clouds in heaven bow and billow around your feet, and you- glide through, oblivious to their ethereal presence.

Countless people cross our path as we walk through this temporal life; but only one or two strike us as people with no darkness within. Mohiuddin Ahmed was one of those unique humans. He radiated pure light, and for those within this light, time always moved peacefully because life seemed to have met all his wants and needs, and as a man so at ease with the ways of life, he effortlessly smoothed out the many negative thoughts of his visitors and friends, just by being who he was.

 A hood of iron thread Drawn over face,

A backstreet, wet at nightfall — a silk sari unfurled. Iridescent black. Autumn leaves — Splashes of gold under streetlights. Rain in Lund Is the same as in a Dhaka backstreet.

The chestnut tree in my courtyard is in full bloom,