Since Drought To Rain Poem by Hasanul Kabir

The promise was, only a cup of tea.
And fifteen miles to go to get that
Precious thing; ridden by a trainee.
The fog was then, of the Trasimene combat!

We got the cup finally!
Red the color, we are born through,
And are thirsty too terribly,
Like the blood-drinking spirit of the Hebrew!

The vapor rises up, calm and quite.
But the bent, a tale itself, told from the morn
To morn by the witnesses, of a white
Horse, not having the horn of a unicorn!

A bent is more fearful when the fog is seen.
And the fog, less than the color.
The vapor gets weak and then unseen,
With the end of the coal, the end of the fire.

Behold, you kiln firer, behold!
Here comes the prince from the Tartarus!
Your coals get fired again, do fold
As the Anticlines rock orders.

Keep the door open for a while;
Let the bliss of the heaven pour.
The airy light eases your toil;
Let the core filled with adore.