Bolstered, the six little mice lead their army up–up–up the trunk of the poor, ravaged oak they were so desperate to save.
His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."
You must have heard the story of your birth a thousand times by now, sweetheart. Your mother and I—home alone.
Again, I wasn’t a poet, but words and sentences jumbled up seeing that small face, light make-up enhancing her beauty. A loose strand of hair cascaded down her cheek, framing her face.
While leaving the institute, a nurse gave me a packet of cigarettes as a token of friendship
The mosque committee was quite displeased with Rashed, their young muezzin.
You are wide awake again
Everyone gathered around the east end of the Shashipur to watch Sharafat Miah dig his own grave. The local kids lurked around Sharafat’s old hut, keeping a watch on the progress of the grave until their mothers came to pick them up after Maghrib.
If they knew, your mother would have said, “It’s in your head, darling,” and your father would have screamed, “Put that head in the toilet bowl where it belongs.”
Bolstered, the six little mice lead their army up–up–up the trunk of the poor, ravaged oak they were so desperate to save.
His final sentiments were etched into the table before he succumbed to his final rest: "I found solace in the mountains. They demanded nothing and remained steadfast by my side."
You must have heard the story of your birth a thousand times by now, sweetheart. Your mother and I—home alone.
Again, I wasn’t a poet, but words and sentences jumbled up seeing that small face, light make-up enhancing her beauty. A loose strand of hair cascaded down her cheek, framing her face.
While leaving the institute, a nurse gave me a packet of cigarettes as a token of friendship
The mosque committee was quite displeased with Rashed, their young muezzin.
You are wide awake again
Everyone gathered around the east end of the Shashipur to watch Sharafat Miah dig his own grave. The local kids lurked around Sharafat’s old hut, keeping a watch on the progress of the grave until their mothers came to pick them up after Maghrib.
If they knew, your mother would have said, “It’s in your head, darling,” and your father would have screamed, “Put that head in the toilet bowl where it belongs.”
At around 2 AM he was awoken by the sound of Shahidun’s sniveling cries on her prayer mat. As grating as it might have sounded, he felt grateful for it to have woken him up.