Bury your feet where its green
And when the air is thin you will see 
The ghosts of people who have lived and loved
Here
Each, with their own story to tell 
The roots of these trees go deeper than the 
Flesh they've sunk their teeth in 
But there's blood on my mouth as we speak, so I ask you
What makes a story?
A hypothetical world of could have and would have 
Of little boys and their latims spinning and digging themselves in uneven soil
As the world spins on its own axis, a story is 
A becoming of death
Of drowned kings and their austere palaces 
Of boots and guns 
And fucking americans    
Look to these uneven lands  
When you see flames consuming the trees
You will find hands that weep in red and a nebulous view
Of The Karnaphuli carrying withered dreams   
Houses in embers and houses in ashes
There is no sticking to their stick homes 
No clinging on to life
The prairies that linger in the scanty aftermath 
Hide their faces 
As the seconds pass with smoke, as boots desecrate the soil underneath
There are no bombs, no aeroplanes 
But there are bodies. Bodies.
Of people. Of water. Of flattened hills.
Every other day
A deafening silence echoes over 
The flooded lake
This is not a story 
This is not a story 

A.M. Fahad is an aspiring poet and writer from Dhaka. He uses vivid imagery and elements of nature to encapsulate his emotions with words, which often end up in a thought train rather than a conclusion. Find him at amfahad1747@gmail.com.