I wonder where God sits in that tower. I wonder whose cries are louder.

From moon beamed mountains  To plains deltaic; In Diasporas–detached 

This poem has been translated by the author from Zahir Raihan’s poem, ‘Kotogulo Kukurer Artonad’ on account of the novelist, writer and filmmaker’s birth anniversary.

The burst of fragrant marigolds on the blanched porch of our old Calcutta home, free like sand, unbridled like the wind

To sit on thy laurels seems apposite, Yet to dig graves for perceptive pleasure resemble a breach Of lines bridging the things learned, unlearned.

We walk past the singing bells and our chambers, Blind to the perils beyond our walls.

I am from the 19 houses in 15 districts, none of which could become "my home, sweet home"  

The motor car is always a thing of darkness, In the sun and lighted roads of day And in the luminous gas at night though 

I frolic and burrow myself inside the vastness of the fields And the prairies that stand tall Of spaces heavily concentrated, and then stretched out to infinity

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

The theocracy is crumbling in its seat

Nothing is meaningless if speech and silence  fill void, flowing in the same force, and no one blocks the road to dreaming.

I tried to be renamed in the middle  But my van and I have never been apart!

I see you, with whatever half awake, sleep drifting irises, I see you. Dusted in the shelves of unread books, I see you and I know you, They will never know you but I do, in ways you are afraid.

her heart was a two seater unfit for a family so big i grew to be a woman mirrored in her shadow when she was younger

you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again

Or will you bloom into a new life with me? 

Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light

Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–

The fact of the matter was this: the poem had been written, the call had been answered, and as lofty as it sounds—at that moment there I was, as Frank O'Hara put aptly—"the center of all beauty! / writing these poems!/ Imagine!".