Uzayer Masud

the etymology of love

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you were a mosaic of everything you have seen
and all the people you have ever loved

i. dhaka unfolds me with its stenches
traffic and what-
not

ii. the sun spills on the sidewalk like runny yellow yolk
folk music i hear on dirt sometimes holds
my attention elastic

iii. beneath five floors two children make a paradise out of
one pile of sand. five fingers one hand a slap on the tyre makes it run faster

iv. i see the leaves break the skin of the water we call a
lake, unmade of tongues

you pause more often now
writing unfinished poetry
in a language your mother was beaten into memorising
but how do i tell you i am, i am, i am?

what abrahamic glorification of poverty is enough to
avenge the injustices of your childhood?

the earth calls unto you and bangladesh is now dead
whatever history i carry is within your memories and
soon they will fade too
you will forget them if you have nobody to talk to