Mother, why is our sky so different?
A sky blooming with a dark makeup, not rainbows, 
nor those winged beings that herald the onset of peace.
Everywhere we look now, Ashes cradle the fathers who paid the debt of fatherhood with over-sympathies.
O my heavy-eyed mother! 
The pale pink sky no longer brings me the joy, 
As it does to the sunbirds to fill the air with blissful melodies,
As it does to the seasoned foragers to take pen and papers and
write certificates of vain treaties that declare our gullible fate.
Morning, evening, night–
A daily ritual of trembling and burning 
And withering with those tremors from a hopeless belief– 
That one day, our sky might adorn again, with no gloomy flames.
I wonder if the bodies that lie, 
Still have those puny sensations as they had in their mother's womb.
Did they die with having usual dreams, 
Usual desires that could be left unburied?
Mother, having heard my borderless words,
hold my thumb as you used to,
When I bargained over four-wheelers with you beneath
The unprotected roofs,
Before the anonymous neighbors,
We never hesitated to know.
Or, wait a while, let me come to you,
Trailing the breath of long sighs.

Md. Sajid Hossain is studying in the Department of English at the University of Asia Pacific.