Far away
In the misted fields of Kishoreganj,
Voices once rose and scattered
Like smoke from morning fires.
No image remains now-
Only the echo of names washed by rain.
O my friend,
You've crossed the bridge of silence.
The thatched barns still breathe
The scent of hay and summer dust,
Where children's laughter
Clings to the wind.
What does it mean, Dear,
To grow old?
Every drizzle writes your name
On the fogged glass of memory.
Even now, I call your sky
And wait for clouds to answer.
You left,
And yet, I am the one who drifts.
Do you know, my friend-
We both carry the same reason
For flight,
Though only one of us could go.
Come-
Let's walk again to the riverbank,
Let's loosen the ropes of sorrow.
In Anandapur's rain-filled joy,
Let us begin anew-
As the monsoon writes our rebirth
Across the trembling earth.
