I have never seen an inch of a smile hanging on my mother’s lips, Instead there lies the pain of a horrible night- 25th of March. I remember my mother standing still beside my father’s grave- with dry eyes. Eyes dried up like the cruelest Month of Chaitra long ago, As if the river Padma, Meghna, and Jamuna has lost all its water. فيلم سباق السيارات But once upon a time these eyes were fountains, no reason- could bar the flowing of joy. These eyes are used to look around me while holding my father in her bosom. Now the time has gone. Time demanded my father to go to the war. But mother, you didn’t know that it was his time to go, you were writing letters after pages and mailed it to the front, the war does not care your crazy love, you told father to come back for his son for a while, letting him know that I was getting naughty. ” When would you come, tell me. فريق روما Your son is getting more naughty day after day” If she got a reply in the mail, she would give tips to the postal worker, She doesn’t wait any more Neither for mail person nor for my father. موقع مراهنات كرة القدم مجانًا But one thing she longs for, she waits for her naughty son’s mobile call. When her cellphone buzzes in the corridor, she replies, “Mishuk, how are you son? Have you finished eating on time? Make sure your body is tight. Call me more often. Be good forever. Devote to humanity.” (Translated from a Bangla poem by Poet Mishuk Selim)
Poet Tree
