Fardin Hasin

I held my grandfather’s hands, like he had held mine during my childhood despite my discomfort. My mother would bug my father about it once in a while, in a very soft manner. Father would squint his eyes and think deep. Mother would get bored and walk away.

The words have left me bare, and the caged bird

It's okay, You can sleep now, rest your helpless soul

There is nothing here, in this decaying city