The pain
I hang around years after years looking forward
For your appearance,
Still, amidst incalculable thrusts of pain,
Remain clinched to your soil.
I possess fabricating mills of pain and lend a part,
If you necessitate.
If exceeds forbearance, send it back.
Lumbering the burden of pain years after years,
Like a born blind.
And there is no pain, instead pleasant indeed.
I possess the perseverance to put up with and so,
Enduring separation.
Oppressed are every being with the shattering clout of palm,
But these remain out in the open or clandestined.
Acquired pain in exchange of life.
Getting hold of it, show, if you can.
I know how to embrace pain to make it mine,
And the only reason, how to make dried fish.
After finishing salt bath, I can say.
Islam Robi