Rubel Islam
Title: Wounds
Poet: Rubel
Islam
21/04/2022
Don't hold
your position
Chair for
sitting.
I'm a little
satisfied,
If at hand
Priced at
only five rupees
Just a pen
That is why
I am blessed and happy.
You sit in
the chair and think
King
yourself, Maharaja!
That's why
you run in the air unconscious
Sword of
imagination!
Where do you
hit? Carre
Wounded! Maybe that man
The wounds
of the body will dry up.
Until death
do us part
Never dry
yours
The wound of
the given heart.
© Rubel Islam ( Bangladesh )
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