Poetry is nothing but the memory of adolescence;
The melancholic face of my mother often remembered by me;
Poetry, the yellow bird sitting alone on a bough of Nim tree;
Poetry, my younger brothers and sisters, sitting sleeplessly
surrounding the fire of leaves; and the return of our father,
ringing bell of his bicycle and his call 'Rabeya! Rabeya! '
Poetry is the southern door kept ajar which got unlocked
by the name of my mother.
Poetry is nothing but going back crossing the foggy way
across the knee-water river. Poetry, the Azan of dawn
or the burning of stubble; it's the expanded smell of sesame
on the belly of cake, the acute smell of fish,
the net spread on the yard and the grassy grave of
my grandfather
in the cluster of bamboo.

Poetry, an unhappy teenager growing up in the
forty six;
Poetry, the meeting, freedom, procession and the
flag of a truant school boy,
and the plaintive description of the elder coming
back
losing all in the flame of tumult.

Poetry, the birds of pastureland, the collected eggs of
ducks and the fragrant grass;
Poetry, the lost calf belonging to the sad faced wife that
fled away snapping the rope;
Poetry, the decorated letters in a secret pad within
a blue envelope;
Poetry means Ayesha Akter, the girl of unfolded
hair at a village Maktab.