His song.
The melancholy song.
Flows through my veins, drifts, and ounces my heart.
But I failed to understand the stature of the same.
And here I lay, with a heavy heart foreseeing how an exasperating farrago I'm.

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তুমি আমার সকালের ভারের চা,
কিছু অচেনা মুহুর্ত,
তুমি আমার গোলাপি রঙের সান গ্লাস,
কিছু না জানা কথা,
তুমিই আমার রদেলা বেলার ছায়া,
আমার এ বসন্ত,
অথবা কিছু অচেনা অনুভূতি,
তুমিই স্রিতি,
তুমিই মায়া,
তুমি আমাকে আমাতে বা‌ধ।।

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My father saw me writing one fine day,
He scanned my story, smiled and said,
"Whatever you write, always remember to add a ray of hope in the last few lines. "
I asked him why he said that. He smiled back and said, "somewhere, someone is near to death and looking for an inspiration to live. Your writing will bring a new ray of sunshine to their life and they will wait for a new day to come. Maybe your writing can save someone's life. "
And trust me, that striked me too hard.

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Being a writer has never been an easy task.
You need to put your thoughts in a poem or a story or maybe an article.
You need to learn the science of patience which is the hidden key to get a piece of writing perfect.
The writing which brings sorrows and joys together,
The writing which makes flowers bloom even in the dreary desert of Arabia,
The writing which helps someone overcome their sucidial thoughts,
The writing which inspires, promotes a strong urge, rather say a desire to live,
The writing which enlightens all.
And you see, being a writer is not easy.
I'll just put your thoughts together in such a way that it will be the greatest gift of time.

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Let us pretend we're flowers,
Which blooms its best everyday,
Let's just pretend we're two stars,
Up above in the sky,
Shining bright like a diamond.

-

Sitting on the rooftop of your heart,
Dreaming, wandering, how you left me,shattered, when you promised to love pieces of me. And no, I'll not say I'm broken but I am lost, maybe forbidden in a kingdom where only loneliness exists.

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Let me share the flaws amidst your lines of poetry so that we become eternal in our lives, forever.

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Could you forget the cuckoos happily chirping in the spring?
She was just like a bird ; she wanted to fly, she tried hard, harder and gave her best to fly up, but was abandoned by the pressure of the wind.
But she has been awake since long. And that feeling will keep her awake, till not the sun kisses the day.

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I don't crave for everything I come in contact with.
I don't crave for worldly possessions around me.
But I do, crave for love, tucked in between the midst of your soul, the smell of your body, those arms which wrap me around you and I feel like the most secured person on the earth alive.
I do crave for honesty and truthfulness which is the key to peace and progress.

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Her eyes.
There lay an intense amount of tranquility, those deep thoughts my heart fails to depict and the words my mind gives a blurry vision within. And a storm, every time, she opened her doorway to the heart into a deep mystic place.
Her eyes.

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