Stories

Tiring self-crusade
Against someone else
Under the skin
With a dreamy mind
Of an elusive child
All they say matters
None of it really does
Waiting to break free
Like buried history.
And did I ever tell you?
I have stories worth years
If only you had the time.
I know well it once went wrong
Started with the one boring
Kept repeating my favourites
They had all the I-s, not the us.
Blame it on my inexperience
Never told before, I speak less.

Break-ups

We have been here before
Year after year, over and over
Perhaps it was my pride
That things will work out
But any way I walk, any turn I take
We’ll only fall apart.
And no one’s ever right
Neither you nor me
The sea and the sky never meet.
I know I’ve been foolish each time
You wanted to step out
And I held you back.
It’s time to return nowhere.
I know it’s late, it’s all on me
And nothing can make up to it.
I’ll carry the cross the same way
I’ve been carrying hope all the time.

The last ride

কেন শুধু মনে হয় শেষ খেয়া বাই বুঝি এই? সন্ধ্যে হলো, ফেরার প্রয়োজন ফুরালো বুঝি আমার… এ কোন অব্যক্ত মুক্তির আনন্দ সব পিছুটানের ব্যাথা ভুলিয়ে দেয়?

Why does this feel like the last sail? As if it’s dusk, and there’s no reason to return anymore… What’s in this inexplicable joy of liberation that shadows the pangs of nostalgia?