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
The moon smiles down at us,
A soft gleam on her bleached brow.
Blind to the beauty of this world