How Long A Hundred Years Is
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
The skeletons of the thirsty night lined
up
Contentious dreams are stolen
The shy sky loses its color
At the foot of the deserted island.
If it lies in the hollow of time, then
A human corpse in a human shell!
Crawling humanity is ruined totally
Sucking up the dead light.
The illusion of shadows is trapped in a web of illusion
Knotless relationships create storm in a tea cup.
In a moment, the best becomes the worst
Who is whose? Injustice in wealth is constant
Saying ‘this world is mine’ breaks my ribs
When will I become civilized?
Can any of you tell me
When I will truly become civilized?
Don’t curse me
The soil beneath my feet,
The oxygen inside my mouth,
The sky over my head.
Body odor will not be judged
What race? What religion? What planet?
Can anyone tell me
How long a hundred years is?
Interesting poem. I like your style.
You paint some powerful images in words. The poem is mysterious also. I am wondering if the suffering is primarily yours painted on the world, or if the world’s suffering makes you suffer. Probably both. I am probably talking of myself, and maybe you.
I see suffering and sorrow, longing and a kind of helplessness caught up in these lines. Perhaps rage, elation, an exquisite humanity, exquisite and captivating tenderness that feels like a pulsation, an expression of belonging. Many lines stayed with me for a long time. Perhaps we are all sad, all longing to be someone who we are not when we feel that we are suffering. We only tend to see our own loneliness that hovers like the sun. City people move differently in the world than poets. Poets think too much. Poets feel too much. But it is good to overthink sometimes I think, it is good to feel that there is beauty in the world and to write about truth and hurt and longing with such tenacity, power, stamina, strength and with such discipline. It is alright, I tell myself. Tomorrow will be beautiful even if it is filled with loneliness and having a sense of belonging. Even the saddest lines in a poem are a gift and a have a hint of patience at revealing the light.