For the Mayor of Metropolitan Millions
O Mayor! My Mayor!
Whitman's Captain beckons you. The North remembers you for no Game of Thrones.
The dusty pavements return through the crack of night,
trailing their way to a wailing retreat of Banani.
You lie there now,
hushed inside the cosmopolitan panic of a falling, human frame.
Unsolicited souls gather to never let you go.
The artist in you coursed along for decades
from the box of magic to chambers and beyond.
When you turned around to a call from the past,
you unmade the commerce paradox
and composed an epic written in acts of no foul play.
Saat Rasta remembers you;
the denizens of open air chant you thankful hymns
at sunlit crossroads of Gabtoli;
waste and garbage finally find a place into their mattered universe,
while we, a baffled crowd,
sigh a breath of appreciation yet dawdle in apprehension.
Will the monstrous billboards rise from filthy ashes once more?
Will the evils of allotted development darken the skies of my beloved Dhaka?
O the mayor of vibrant hearts! O the heart of metropolitan millions!
What did you hum into the ear of silent walls when your last breath
was fading into the midnight perfume?
An unfinished tale? A silent gothic of tireless treading?
Time will go by, leaving us with the flickers of an endless train of dreams
bursting through your blazing eyes!
Manzur Alam is an Assistant Professor of English at East West University. He is passionate about
reading and writing poetry.
T. S. Marin
I woke up in the morning.
There was a smell of death.
There was a goodbye due for years.
There were promises of returning.
But you will never lose me
Because I will never be yours.
The rains wept and the flower woke.
And there were smells of lie,
I woke up,
Because I know when someone is
I smell death.
T. S. Marin is obsessed with collecting and reading books. She also teaches English at Primeasia University and is the Sub Editor of Star Literature and the Reviews pages of The Daily Star.