Posted by: Ron DuBour | June 18, 2016

thinking of you ~by Ziauddin Bulbul


 

 

thinking of you

My doors and windows are thinking of you
may it be termed as extreme
Whatever way you define it doesn’t matter
my letter head and table are plastered with always your dream.

You never stepped into this floor of mine
or stood there beside the door with smiles
and didn’t take a book from the racks of my bookshelf
or seated with ease there
on the wood made chair
or placed your beautiful tomb on my bed ever.
My indisciplined sleep of the night
with its awakening being yet thinking about you
with sweet delight.

My outskirts too submitted to your name
the red rose of dusky twilight
and warm breasts of the pigeon resides
in the whole of kitchen room, at the same time my empty saucepan
and my writing books too
are waiting and thinking for you.

My fingers my experienced eyelids
my bones of ribs every pores of hairs
chanting your name like the righteous.

You didn’t come even for a moment
here or take a little rest beside me
oh how long it was I’ve had you in me

Yet I feel your presence
in the dying part of night
in the imagery of dark
like the dearly sounding echo of heart
boarding yourself over the bed of words
in the stanza of my poetic thoughts
You’re roaming here to there
I feel your presence active and alive everywhere.

Someone suddenly whispers as if at night
you remained in such a way
Silence is good no doubt
yet under the stone palpitating lizard alike
some words wanted to grow up with my feelings like nature !

The turkish towel has taken the refuge in silence
I’m trying to memorising
the line of your face and black hairs
The flower which you liked most
I remember it by heart
I saw the sudden entrance of petals
into the pore of my skin thickening the dark a little more melody of flute is ringing
the angel has kept its hands on the window
and covered its face with obscure veils !

In fact memory is a kind of living with the life of a Maya!


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