The culture of going out for iftar is ever increasing in Chattogram.
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.
The moon smiles down at us, A soft gleam on her bleached brow.
Blind to the beauty of this world