Hold on to the hand of your lover. Because when the baton falls it will be between the spaces where we stand.

Stay in a group, never in alleyways

The July wind brought in the scent of new beginnings

Magic boys and girls of Bangladesh, I love you.

In the blanks of muddy moonlight

When we cease to have rhythm, we are dead. And we cease to have poetry, we are spiritually dead, one way or another.