Well now you know how time flies,
Like a bird caught in a whirlwind,
Like a serpent shedding skins,
Like a roadside bench being abandoned again and again.
And it has been said before
And maybe even before that,
That these are worlds of our own making,
A translucent lucid facade of falsifications
Of hopes and of dreams and of memorabilia.
Yet somewhere there’s a drawn curtain
Immobilized in stupified splendor,
Somewhere there resides the urge to delve deep,
Somewhere, a blind eye burns in raving darkness,
While revolutions are perambulated around dreary hospital wards,
While heretic recoilless rifles are showcased in gilded castles.
Now that the semblance of visible truth is
Adulterated and semiconductors ruling
The soil make indecent passes at liberty
And preordained destiny is sold in forlorn
Bazaars, my friend what would you like to visit:
The accrued interest from centuries old filth,
Or pneumatic portraits of proverbial divine grit?
Omar Rashid Chowdhury writes from Dhaka, Bangladesh
