You have come to me out of antiquities
We have loved one another for generations
We have loved one another for centuries

You teach me to trust the voice of my voices
You teach me to believe my own believings
You touch the palpability of my possibilities

Together we reflect what our mirrors conceal
Together we upgrade the sun in our meridians
We remain open night and day to transcendence

You are incompletely disguised as a mortal

1.

O bird of the morning, learn love from the moth
Because it burnt, lost its life, and found no voice.
These pretenders are ignorantly in search of Him,
Because he who obtained knowledge has not returned.

2.

How could I ever thank my Friend?
No thanks could ever begin to be worthy.
Every hair of my body is a gift from Him;
How could I thank Him for each hair?
Praise that lavish Lord forever
Who from nothing conjures all living beings!
Who could ever describe His goodness?
His infinite glory lays all praise waste.
Look, He has graced you a robe of splendor
From childhood’s first cries to old age!
He made you pure in His own image; stay pure.
It is horrible to die blackened by sin.
Never let dust settle on your mirror’s shining;
Let it once grow dull and it will never polish.
When you work in the world to earn your living
Do not, for one moment, rely on your own strength.
Self-worshiper, don’t you understand anything yet?
It is God alone that gives your arms their power.
If, by your striving, you achieve something good,
Don’t claim the credit all for yourself;
It is fate that decides who wins and who loses
And all success streams only from the grace of God.
In this world you never stand by your own strength;
It is the Invisible that sustains you every moment.

The lady is
Known now
Up-to-date;

Who wanders
Here there
With male mate.

Who traps
Swallows mind
At a glance;

Life makes
Blank letter,
Defines as blanch.

Why suchLady isModern to you?
How sheMay be??From which view???

I want to fly—
Not in here in the sky
Being ringed legs; how can I?
Feel doubt on myself sometimes—
Really, ‘Am I a guy?’

I don’t get drinking water
How can they afford wine & bear?
I have no complains and no ambition,
Because what is the value of breaking ambition?

No need to have Adidas boot,
I am happy on the naked foot;
Why they are different from us?
Sorry to say—‘‘Any curriculum mistake’s God?’’

Want to be on high
Oh sorry! I forgot ‘’I am not a guy’’
Laughing on myself! I can’t go on without lie
Oh no! What can I do? I can’t die

Only after my death, I can fly
After all, I want to fly……

Beams of light began to crack the curtain of darkness. The sun was about to break over the horizon. Roosters thronged around a little pile of grains. Ducks quacked on their way to the pond.
Mofiz Mia stood outside the closed door of his bedroom. Wrinkles of worry were forming on his dark forehead. His wife Hafiza was experiencing the final moments of labor inside the room. Mofiz had hired an experienced midwife some hours ago. The elders of the family were saying morning prayers. Clay pots filled with juicy sweets were kept in one corner of the house. They were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Hafiza’s child.
About fifteen minutes later, the midwife came out of the room: “Congratulations, miyan, it’s a girl,” she announced.
A wide smile spread across the farmer’s worried face.
“How are they?” He asked. Can I go in and see them?”
“They’re fine. Go in.” The midwife moved away from the entrance.
The whole room was filled with the sickening odor of antiseptic. Mofiz could never stand the smell, but he did not bother that day. He was there to see his firstborn, not to make a fuss about the smell.
“Are you happy, Mofiz?” Hafiza asked very softly, as he lovingly put his hand in her thick hair.
He picked up the tiny bundle of flesh from Hafiza’s arms. “Happy? I love my little cotton-doll,” he said, kissing his daughter’s hand.
“What will we call her?” Mofiz’s sister, Aziza, who had stayed at Hafiza’s bedside all day long, asked her brother.
“She’s beautiful, so why don’t we call her something similar to beauty? You decide, sis.”
“Lovely,” Aziza replied, smiling at her newborn niece.
Maybe on that day, Allah smiled upon Lovely, saying, “Fasten your seat belts, little girl, life’s going to be a bumpy roller coaster ride”.
*******
Day by day, Lovely grew up to be an intelligent little girl. She spread joy wherever she went. Besides being an excellent scholar, she could also prepare mouth-watering dishes. Her dark, kohl-lined eyes reflected love and determination.  She won the best student award for three consecutive years in school.
Five years later, Hafiza gave birth to their second child, Hasan.  At that time, only girls were taught cooking and other household chores. But Mofiz and Hafiza gave their son cooking lessons from a very early age. Hasan spent most of his leisure time looking after the cattle. He played a bamboo-flute while his cows munched on fresh grass. Many other farmers mixed water with milk to increase the quantity. Hasan’s cows were very well bred, and he never mixed water. As a result, he sold at least ten litres of milk each day, which was a great financial help to his family.
*******
Mofiz invited his cousin Manik to dinner one fine day.  Manik had loathed Mofiz since childhood, because the two cousins were like similar poles of a magnet. Mofiz not only farmed, but also had a small cloth shop. On the other hand, Manik was lazy and a failure at work. He preferred to earn his living by stealing others’ crops and selling them in the village market. He was known  to all as the “Veggie Thief”. None of his children went beyond primary school; he could not afford to educate them.
“Girls should only learn cooking and household work, I think. What’s the use of sending them to school? It’s a waste of money,” Manik commented, taking a huge bite out of a piece of chicken.
“Brother-in-law, both our children are equal before us. There is almost nothing a girl can’t do these days. If Hasan can go to school, why should Lovely stay at home?” Hafiza replied indignantly, flashing an affectionate look at Lovely, who stood behind the kitchen door.
“We are not in the dark ages, Manik. My Lovely can be a doctor, engineer or whatever she wishes to be,” Mofiz snapped at his cousin.
“I came here with a marriage proposal for Lovely with my son, but it seems you’ll not get her married now.” Manik threw his last opinion before bidding adieu.
Lovely was an expert at climbing trees. She could reach the highest branch to get the best mangoes. On weekends, she took orders for sewing quilts. Lovely could sew about fifteen quilts per weekend, and she charged a very reasonable price for each. Like Hasan, Lovely contributed a good amount to her family.
Lovely’s beauty bloomed as she grew up. Her waist-long hair and melodious voice would make any boy flip for her.
Mofiz’s business prospered as the years passed. He cultivated new crops on his farm. Within a few years, he had refurbished his house with new furniture.
*******
One day, Mofiz came back from work earlier than usual. His pale face and bloodshot eyes were enough to show that something was wrong. His body was burning with very high fever, and Hafiza’s hand burnt when she touched him. .
Aziza, Hafiza and Lovely tried their level best to bring the temperature down. But despite all the efforts, Mofiz started vomiting blood, and he breathed his last at midnight.
Hafiza’s health broke soon thereafter. She was affected by pulmonary tuberculosis. Lovely and Hasan could not bear the family expenses any more. They had to sell their cattle for Hafiza’s treatment. Hasan even mortgaged their house to raise money.
After a long course of treatment, Hafiza won her battle with death, but by that time, they had no assets left. Hasan and Lovely could not pay the enormous mortgage amount, so all of their property was auctioned. Unable to find any way to regain their  lost property, Hafiza got aboard a bus to Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh. They took shelter at Hafiza’s cousin’s place.
Hafiza’s cousin, Sharmin, was a very kind-hearted lady. She tried her utmost to make her cousin’s children comfortable. Her own children were not as intelligent as Lovely and her brother. They never shared their possessions with Hafiza’s kids. Sharmin felt really embarrassed. She tried to make her children behave well with their cousins.
At one point, Sharmin’s selfish children got into a huge fight with Lovely and Hasan over a trivial matter. Hasan was seriously injured.
“I don’t think I can stay here any longer,” Hafiza said between sobs, before storming out of her cousin’s house.
Hafiza got a job in a garments factory. She had to send her children to work as domestic helpers against her will. Quilts and milk were both abundant in Dhaka. Moreover, Hafiza had heard that domestic helpers got good salaries.
The siblings got employed by Dr. Arup Chowdhury,a wealthy and well-known dentist. His wife took good care of her employees.  Lovely and Hasan helped Arup and his family. The family was very kind. The teenagers got time to study, and had a personal television for recreation.
*******
After six months, Lovely took some washed clothes to the terrace to hang them out to dry. Dr. Arup lived on the top floor of a five-storied building. The terrace walls were quite low. As Lovely began arranging the clothes on the clothesline, her foot slipped.
“Help!” Lovely shouted at the top of her voice. Seconds later, she blacked out.
Luckily, Arup’s wife had heard the shout, because the terrace was just above the dining room, and she was having a little snack there at that moment. She immediately took Lovely to the nearest hospital.
After examining Lovely, who lay unconscious, the doctor advised to shift her to CRP (Center for Rehabilitation of the Paralyzed). It was located in Savar, one of the most important areas of Bangladesh. Savar is the location of Dhaka Export Processing Zone (DEPZ) and CRP was near the DEPZ.
CRP is a hospital established mainly for the under-privileged people. Vellorie Taylor, an English physiotherapist, had established it about twelve years previously.
Tied on a special stretcher, Lovely was taken to CRP. After a long examination, the doctor gave the life-shattering news: “This girl will never be able to move normally again. Shoulder downwards, her body is paralyzed. She’ll be able to use a wheelchair after some months. She will be able to move only her head and neck, and she’ll talk.”
Unfortunately, Lovely had overheard the doctor. She could not believe that running was a closed chapter in her life. For days, she could not sleep or eat properly.
The staff of CRP, especially Miss Taylor, decided to take her out of the mental shock. There were many activities for the patients such as wheel-chair dance, singing, crafts and many more. The CRP patients contribute a lot to the economy. Their handmade things are sold at various well known stores across the country. A portion of the goods are exported too.
One day, some friends took Lovely to watch the annual cultural show. She really enjoyed the beautiful wheel-chair dance.
“Can’t I do something like that?” Lovely wondered.
“Nothing is impossible if you try.” Miss Taylor always told her patients. All of a sudden, an idea struck Lovely’s mind. “Please take me to the fine arts room,” she requested a friend.
From eating food to doing her hair, Lovely needed help with everything. She always had a nurse beside her. But this time, she was determined to do something alone.
Rajib, the fine arts teacher, was busy with his students. When Lovely told him to teach her painting, he looked up at her enthusiastic face, smiling.
“I’d hate to say no to this girl,” he thought.
“Lovely, you can’t move your hands, but still you can learn to paint.” Rajib said aloud, displaying a tiny metal piece.
“See this; it’s a mouth brush-holder. You have to put a brush in it, and clench it between your teeth. You will learn to paint gradually. It’s not an easy job, but once you learn it, you’ll enjoy it,” Rajiv informed in an encouraging tone.
Lovely picked up the brush in the method shown by her teacher. The brush dropped down…once…twice… but Lovely could clench the brush properly after some time.
She mixed a bit of red and white paint in the color plate, and gave a short stroke on the paper. Lovely intended to paint a rose, but the thing on the easel looked like a pink pattern.
“Try girl, try. You can do it,” Rajib kept encouraging
*******
Lovely took just a few weeks to learn painting properly. Rajib called her his prodigy. She spent hours in front of her easel. Even at mealtimes, when the nurse came to feed her, she kept her brush beside her. Her paintings, in bright, vibrant colors, dazzled everyone. Her works were sent to publishers. Soon, the paintings turned into calendars, greeting cards, posters and book covers. A good portion of CRP’s earnings came from her paintings. She participated in exhibitions with famous artists.
Hasan and her mother also came to live with her. Lovely helped her brother to build a dairy farm and a fish hatchery in Savar. A little away from the main city, Savar had both an urban and a rural touch in it. Hafiza spent her time nursing the CRP patients.
Today, her paintings decorate CRP’s cabins. Vellorie has a self portrait done by Lovely in her office. Life is a bumpy roller-coaster ride, and Lovely is still riding on that roller-coaster.

The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.
The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.
The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.
The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot soles, talk of the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snowballs,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of roused mobs,
The flap of the curtained litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his passage to the center of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of overfed or half-starved who fall sunstruck or in fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls restrained by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances, rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them — I come and I depart.

From each, Love demands a mystic silence.
What do all seek so earnestly?  “Tis Love.
Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts,
In Love no longer “Thou” and “I” exist,
For self has passed away in the Beloved.
Now will I draw aside the veil from Love,
And in the temple of mine inmost soul
Behold the Friend,  Incomparable Love.
He who would know the secret of both worlds
Will find that the secret of them both is Love.

[Attar of Nishapur (1145 - 1221 ce) saint and mystic, one of the most voluminous authors in Persian literature on religious topics.  His best-known work, Conference of the Birds, is an elaborate allegory of the soul's quest for reunion with God]

“I promise I will return, mother. I promise by your love”
The last words of Shafkat reverberated in Shimul’s head. How long since she last saw her precious son, her sole reason for survival? How long since she tightly wrapped her arms around his small framed body? It had been too long to bear, too long to wait, that she knew. Every day, she kept staring at the long barren road in front of the house, hoping with all her might she would spot the shadow of an oncoming young man with a stubble, spotting her Shafkat.
The ongoing liberation war tore down her life and the lives of millions of others, a ruthless monster feeding on the despair of people, fueled by the hatred and the animality of human beings claiming they fight to establish peace. Peace…. a word without a meaning for Shimul. The meaning of her existence is thin, barely existing; the wind of Shafkat’s promise kept the flame of her life burning.
As Shimul woke up for her early morning prayer, she falteringly went to Shafkat’s desolate room. Her heart refused to beat as her eyes lay upon the empty made bed, and the book that he was reading before leaving for the war. Shimul hoped that it was all a nightmare; that she would wake up with the beautiful innocent face of her son tensely peering at her, his concern and love for her etched in his face when he would ask: “What’s wrong mother? Did you have a bad dream?”
The fantasy, the temporary bliss of her imagination, broke the dam of emotion, and the waters of her anguish flooded her. She started to cry heavily, her frail body heaving and threatening to quit. It was the same every day. She cried and cried, until her eyes had no more tears to give away, until she was too tired and dejected and the sun shone mockingly on her face from the window of Shafkat’s room.
But he said he would come! He promised! Surely, he wouldn’t dare to break a promise with his mother? He never broke a promise, Shafkat was the epitome of humanity, the best of God’ s creation to his mother.
But it was war. It doesn’t discriminate while killing, and doesn’t certainly choose to keep the good people alive. Will Shafkat’s promise and his love for his mother be enough to guarantee a safe passage to his mother’s arms? Shimul’s mind was numbed with these thoughts.
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she missed to notice the swirl of dust on the road, and the sound of footsteps fast approaching.
A sharp rapping of the door jolted her from her oblivion, forcing her to come back to reality. She trudged towards the door, her mind refusing to focus on anything other than the framed picture of her little child, smiling, as if there was nothing wrong in the world.
But suddenly she stopped dead, rejecting to step forward, because a macabre thought sent a chill down her spine. The news of fallen soldiers on the battlefield are brought to their houses by a person. The person at the other side of the door might give Shimul the news she was dreading; the news that would put out the flickering flame of her life: the death of her son.
Mustering all her remaining strength and courage, she slowly twisted the door handle and began to pull the door open. It took her several seconds to get adjusted to the light of the dazzling sun, but once her eyes adjusted, her face became rigid. And she heard a familiar voice.
“Hello Ma, I have come to fulfill my promise.”

We are on our way to your planet. We will be there shortly. But in this, our first contact with you, our “headline” is: We do not want your gravel.
We are coming to Earth, first of all, just to see if we can actually do it. Second, we hope to learn about you and your culture(s). Third—if we end up having some free time—we wouldn’t mind taking a firsthand look at your almost ridiculously bountiful stores of gravel. But all we want to do is look.
You’re probably wondering if we mean you harm. Good question! So you’re going to like the answer, which is: We mean you no harm. Truth be told, there is a faction of us who want to completely annihilate you. But they’re not in power right now. And a significant majority of us find their views abhorrent and almost even barbaric.
But, thanks to the fact that our government operates on a system very similar to your Earth democracy, we have to tolerate the views of this “loyal opposition,” even while we hope that they never regain power, which they probably won’t (if the current poll tracking numbers hold up).
By the way, if we do take any of your gravel, it’s going to be such a small percentage of your massive gravel supply that you probably won’t even notice it’s gone.
You may be wondering how we know your language. We are aware that there’s a theory on your planet that we (or other alien species from the far reaches of the galaxy) have been able to learn your language from your television transmissions. This is not the case, because most of us don’t really watch TV. Most of our knowledge about your Earth TV comes from reading Zeitgeisty think pieces by our resident intellectuals, who watch it not for fun but for ideas for their print articles about how Earth TV holds a mirror up to Earth society, and so on. We mean, we’ll watch Earth TV sometimes—if it happens to be on already—but, generally, we prefer to read a good book or revive the lost art of conversation.
Sadly, Earth TV is like a vast wasteland, as the Earthling Newton Minow once said. But, for those of you who can understand things only in TV terms, just think of us as being very similar to Mork from Ork, in that he was a friendly, non-gravel-wanting alien who visited Earth just to find out what was there, and not to harvest gravel.
Speaking of a vast wasteland, you might want to start picking out and clearing off a place for our spacecraft to land. Our spacecraft, as you will see shortly, is huge. Do not be alarmed; this does not mean that each one of us is that much bigger than each one of you. It’s just that there were so many of us who wanted to come that we had to build a really huge spacecraft.
So, again, no cause for alarm.
(Full disclosure: each of us actually is much bigger than each of you, and there’s nothing we can do about it. So please don’t use any of your Earth-style discrimination against us. This is just how we are, and it’s not our fault.)
Anyway, re our spacecraft: it’s kind of gigantic. The deceleration thrusters alone are sort of, like . . . well, imagine four of your Vesuvius volcanoes (but bigger), turned upside down.
We don’t want to hurt anyone, so, if you could just clear off one continent, we think we can keep unintended fatalities to a minimum. Australia would probably work. (But don’t say Antarctica. Because we’d just melt it, and then you’d all end up underwater. Which would make it virtually impossible for us to learn about your hopes and your dreams, and your culture, and to harvest relatively small, sample-size amounts of your gravel, just for scientific study.)
A little bit about us: our males have two penises, while our females have only one. So, gender-wise, if you use simple math, we’re pretty much identical to you.
And, as far as protocol goes, we’re a pretty informal species. If you want to put together a welcoming ceremony with all your kings and queens and Presidents and Prime Ministers and leading gravel-owners, that’s fine. But please don’t feel like you have to.
Technically, it would be possible for us to share our space-travel technology with you, so that you could build a spacecraft and travel to our planet also. But, for right now, it just feels like it would be better if we came to your place.
Speaking of gravel, one thing we can’t tell from our monitoring of Earth is how your gravel tastes. It’s just something we’re curious about, for no real reason. Is it salty? It looks salty.
Maybe you could form a commission of scientists/gravel-tasters to look into this and let us know. Just have them collect all the gravel you have and put it in one big pile. (There are some pretty big empty parts of Utah, New Mexico, and Russia that might be good spots for such a large gravel pile, but that’s just an F.Y.I.)
Then, if you could have your top scientists/gravel-tasters go through this gravel pile, tasting each and every piece, that would be great. Also, if it’s not too much of a hassle, have them put all the saltier-tasting pieces in a separate pile.
Anyway, that about wraps up this transmission! Looking forward to seeing you very soon. (Sorry we couldn’t have given you more notice, but we didn’t want you Earth people going crazy and looting stuff and having sex in the streets out of panic about losing all your delicious gravel, which is something that is definitely not going to happen, because, when it comes down to it, what is gravel really but just a bunch of baby rocks?)
Our E.T.A. on Earth is sometime in the next four hundred and fifty to five hundred years, which we know is a blink of an eye in your Earth time, so start getting ready! Let’s have fun with this.
Yours,
A Species from a Galaxy You Haven’t Even Noticed Yet
P.S.—We saw that you sent some people to your moon recently. Good job! But, just to let you know, don’t waste your time with the moon. There’s no gravel there. We already checked.

Waiting for my son in the bus stand everyday,
Roads filled with cars & people.
Often I look at his picture & cry!
No phone calls since he left me in old homage!
Getting older & weaker!

Nothings new everyone comes & goes but my son…
Every happy & sad moment I remember with my son
Very often I think I might die.
Eagerly I wait for you every second when will he come?
Running in streets following strangers, thinking as son.

Counting my last days as they pass by!
On the bed now, can’t stand in the bus stand or
run in the streets.
My hopes are almost being shattered.
Extremely unhappy I am today as a mother!
Sacrificing all those for you was nothing but useless!!!

Running in the death line
I am really your mother?
God sees all but still if you come now I’ll forgive you.
Hope is still in my heart that you will come to me!
The hopes gone with her & really