Waziha Aziz

Perhaps father was never taught to love.

I stare bleary eyed as my lock screen tells me I have a new message.

The culture of going out for iftar is ever increasing in Chattogram.

I used to wear my minutes as accessories and now the minutes wear me.

The gravity of writing has always come from the writer. A piece of literature cannot be judged without the whys and hows, and these questions are impossible to answer without sentience.

“Where the hell is Manzur?” Taher crouched near a slight bend, peeking over some dying shrubbery. “I said high noon.”

A pity, it began as a reflective study. A bird’s eye view of Kafka’s conundrum  Is a fallen leaf lost, or free? I slid a window wide open Found a dead moth crumpled on the sill.

Cool winter winds Carry stories untold

Men wearing wreaths uphold their sacred emblem - They extend an olive branch. Hold round-table talks on their next daring conquest. Fill banks with our blood. Build forts of crisp notes. Offer helpless smiles to victims of wars that they sell. They empty the bowels of our earth for oil, tie a string from end to end

I hope it finds you in good health.

The moon smiles down at us, A soft gleam on her bleached brow.

Blind to the beauty of this world