Bangladesh '71
Venturing at last to go out
I blink at the guilt in the eye
And fumble with the throat
As if there were a tie Smoky dusk falls like fear
Over stone and human heart.
How, and with what, shall one create art?
Flames, death, then ash consumes the fire. Blood of the doomed stains our sleep,
Like a question hangs pen over paper,
Fumbling fingers miss flesh they look for,
My love is vapour, but I don't weep.
Dawn stirs like a mouse; whose knock is it on the door?
I blink at the guilt in the eye
And fumble with the throat
As if there were a tie Smoky dusk falls like fear
Over stone and human heart.
How, and with what, shall one create art?
Flames, death, then ash consumes the fire. Blood of the doomed stains our sleep,
Like a question hangs pen over paper,
Fumbling fingers miss flesh they look for,
My love is vapour, but I don't weep.
Dawn stirs like a mouse; whose knock is it on the door?
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel.
Comments