A. Z. M. M. Moksedul Milon
Oh yes, my mother! You are an age-old ragged banner,
fluttering in the stormy wind of beastly corruption,
over the broken highways and footpaths of hopeless hope,
trodden with the spiky jackboots of nasty politics.
Yet we are the tough strings, tightly holding your upper ends,
and tying tight to withering branches of ‘conomy;
Yet we are the unbreakable pieces of heavy stone,
hanging like heavy medals from your crippling lower ends.
And the pains of rapes and acid-burns, lootings and killings
are now tens of thousands of cutouts off your heaving chest;
And our indomitable will is the shower of hope,
now making the withering tree sprout and rejuvenate.
How will a tempestuous typhoon now topple you down?
How will beastly Sidrs with ghastly gusts now blow you off?
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