One morning, God asked His angels to make a heart. They did not know what a heart was.

To love is to hold the knife To love is to do the math To love is to carry a box full of fruits To love is to buy flowers, Either way you carry the burden of it, of love.

Spectral land—you are bleeding hollow; flesh and bone at the precipice of ruin,

In my wildest imagination, away from all rhyme or reason, I weave my realm, unbridled and free, craving for the unfelt and extreme, by all standards but my own.

The Little Boy.He sold magic .mostly for free, .wrapped in candy wrappers, .joy and spring-coloured rosettes, .and, at times, priced at .a few tufts of dandelion threads.

Amaya Rahman’s debut poetry collection Tears of a Flower explores mental health and major Bangladeshi events, including the July uprising and Milestone plane crash, blending personal grief with social commentary to inspire young readers and spark national dialogue.

The unnamed You can get lost trying to  get back to the exit at the Vatican Museum. 

If every leaf that falls is a memory you’ve forgotten, then let my ink become rain— so you might remember how it felt to grow with me.

Tea breaks, the perks of a bike ride.

"The ghosts still sing in Shantinagar" is one of the winning entries for our Halloween themed writing contest, 'Spooktober: Bhooter Adda'

Whose bell rings in the temple tonight? Whose hymn rises from the Gospel's heart? And in the call of Esha, does the muezzin still implore— "Come, come toward salvation"? Across the purified valley of night, from the world's scattered prayers,

I wake up to the smell of coral jasmine Those mushrooms in my garden of dreams.

Winters feel less like winters, the sun burns on my fragile skin. December. Tell me it’s

Do you remember the sunset on the 18th of July? What colour was it?

Review of Mitali Chakravarty’s ‘From Calcutta to Kolkata: A City of Dreams: Poems’ (Hawakal Publishers Pvt Ltd, 2025)

and for every grave / a firefly burns / and for every grave / Dhaka never learns

Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief

'On the Other Side of Silence' is a thoughtful volume of poetry, not just because it summarises every existential crisis that visits contemporary life but also because it engages, unlike a postmodern cynic, with the issues that plague the world

It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else

There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights