This isn’t end of word
Never talk to you truth?
Truth can’t exit the door
But nobody can die alone.
Only the wind knows
Birds cry in the flaming sky
Clouds feel your pain.
Love is nothing but ill memory
You can sing with silence,
feel like loving again.
World is the miracle eye
Word goes to fly in the air
Come on memory, kiss my life.
After three lines
I sleep in the flower
Honey bees wait for me.
Dream over the night
Window makes the sense of fly
The mind is throwing the cool sky
I see the fling finger, in blue eye.
Nobody can see my mind
Darkness is filling my heart
A hungry man eats poetry and art.
Mistakes the leg, where is the way?
Say birds, go to hell in the higher
Money is nonsense made of red flyer
Freedom is choice, nothing more
How do shy bell laugh at the door
Come on alone; deep in the love shore.
Dream over the night, where is the moon?
Spring is my wife, rain is my son
Life crosses death, silence is far gone.
The city is dead, thunderstorm gathers
Ashes hove in infinite sadness
My skeleton comes from usual ridicule.
We lives in the green egg
It’s three layers; the hard part is black hole
One is white honey and the other red coal.
Mom asks me alone:
Do you know grains of reality?
I say, future makes me silent.
Time isn’t real, moment passes away
Dead man saw the future is luffing
We talk too fast, go in the heel. Hey!
Cries dye in the sky, alone heart
Give us the door, we see them depart
One step faster, labour goes to the future.
Absence of eye
Dedicated to Alain Badiou
Close the way, blind the moon
My mind wakes up, a lite fairy comes on soon
and light in the focus, looks like as loom.
He isn’t me, winter graze to dew
Absence of eye, open the horizontal view.
I’m nobody and he is in you.
The blind sees all, all isn’t there
Who knows, soil is moving the air
Freedom is bound to absence, path in here.
Who calls to mind, image left to blare?
Says the mirror, the shadow follows in two lines
The deep are two’s, but I’m missing to you.
Nobody here and there, only word is rising
Drop the leafs in rolls, life is bare to things
Nothing is done, something to see absence.
Shakhawat Tipu, born in 1971, is a distinguished bilingual poet and critical thinker from Bangladesh. He is the leading poet in his generation. His poems translated in Spanish, Italian, Serbian and English. His published five poetry books are: Elah Hi Borosha (2002), Jhah Be Ei Bakyo Porokaale Hobe (2004), Shri Chorone Shu (2007), Buddhijibi Dekho Sobe (2009) and Karl Marxer Dhormo (2012). He edited Jatiya Shahittya (2008), a magazine of linguistics and philosophy and Charalnama (2011), a collection of street people’s interviews with a subaltern dictionary and Noverar Rup (2019), an art critics book on modern Bengali sculptor Novera Ahmed. He is the former acting editor literary magazine in Notundhara and former editorial consultant an art magazine Depart. He is the former General Secretary in Bangladesh Progressive Writer’s association.