# Nocturnal's Aeipathy

When the nature rests
In the embrace of silence:
A nocturnal soul, somewhere
Would be still awake!
To burble in front
The word's soul,
And to listen their eutony
Coming from
The unfolded pages,
That feels like querencia to her;
Doesn't wish for
the daybreak to appear,
Since these all are aeipathy of her.

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Cradle; a rocking cushion bed for an infant, considered to be the most cherished piece of furniture in a home. It houses the pivotal moments of a baby's commencing months outside the mother's womb. The cribs of a cradle are often rattled by the babies in their hours of hostility. The tiny clawed portions inside the cradle remain hallmarks of memories for the parents. If the cradle had the inherent capacity to hold memories, then, the father's funny clatters, his whispers, his random talks about mommy, his safe pranks and the mother's concerning moans, their unkempt hair, their quiet stares and those ingenious smiles under sleepy sloppy eyes, would make the cradle the most emotional non-living thing out there.

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He stopped hurting himself.

He started torturing his soul. ❤🗡

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তোমার চোখে চোখ রাখলেই ধেয়ে আসে
নেমে আসে আমার শরীরে রাতের সরীসৃপ,
আমি মুক্তি চাই সেই মাংসখাদক ছোঁবল থেকে
তোমার ঠোঁটে ঠোঁট কষিয়ে ব্যথা মাপি।
তবু যন্ত্রণা ছিঁড়ে খায় আমার শিরা-উপশিরা,
আমি ছিঁড়ে খেতে চাই পিরামিডাকৃতি স্তন,
আঁচড় কাটি বাদামি চক্রবূহ্যের চারপাশে।
অরণ্য খুঁজতে গিয়ে থমকে দাঁড়াই নাভিকুঞ্জে,
আমি জানি, আগেও দেখেছি...
এর খানিকটা গভীরেই পাপ-পূণ্যের উপনদী আঁকা...
কে যেন আমার দৈত্যরাজ্যের কড়া নেড়ে বলছে,
এক ডুবেতেই মুক্তি পাবি, দুই ডুবেতে সুখ...
আমি ডুবতে ডুবতে তলিয়ে গেছি বিষাদগ্রস্থে,
দেয়াল হাসে আমায় দেখে, ফিসফিসিয়ে বলে -
তিন ডুবেতে ছন্দপতন, তোর জ্বর বাড়বে খুব।
ভুলে গেছি আমি কোথায় - অরণ্যে নাকি সমুদ্দরে
জলরাশিতে কুঠারাঘাত, অরণ্যে দিচ্ছি ডুব।
ভ্ৰান্ত আমি, ক্লান্ত আমি, নিশাচর পশু, অবাধ্য দানব
ভালোবাসা কি বেঁচে আছে আদৌ এই অগ্নিগর্ভে ?
অরণ্য সৈকতে শুয়ে আছে হিংস্র কিছু শব।
তুমি-আমি ঘুমের ভানে মাখছি গায়ে হিম-আরব!

# নিশাচর

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During those distressed days, when one of our parents are bedridden with an acute fever, we are in a constant state of alarming angst. We are in a haste to do everything for them until they recover. Our priorities change drastically too. In the midst of these scurried actions, our sleep deprives too, and we station ourselves in front of their room, browsing through their sleep, looking for the only sign of life we could rely on, their breath. Sometimes the sinister night plays a cynical trick by clouding our vision and we panic fearfully when we miss one of their heaving breaths. If you are a peak pessimist, you won't sleep after that, if you are an optimist, you'd try to rekindle your thoughts with something positive, but you'll never sleep peacefully too.

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For poets to light up the sky.

Whimsical rhymes twinkling,
To illuminate the dark insides.

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The Light Hurts.
I Am Still High On The Night.

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Night loves me
because we both love
each other's existence.

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May 3, 2020; 1:24

the beautiful thing about
not being able to sleep at night
is you can swirl
in the silver magic of moonlight
and dream with open eyes

you can sleep your worry off
with the rising sun-
"a beautiful lullaby to your eyes"

and you can wake up
with the sun, bidding goodbye,
leaving behind a palette of colors
as twilight,

for you to swim in it and
paint your bland being,
as you sit on the wooden porch,
slowly sipping life.

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People who volunteer for night jobs have an unwavering advantage over the others. Although they look drowsy during the sun blazed afternoons, they are exceptionally vigilant throughout their nights like a nocturnal knight, browsing and wandering hither thither with their fat sappy eyes scanning through minute details. Thieves never dare to rob such midnight artists too.

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