The death of Amal Hussain brings us an insistence to uprooted those princes of the middle east. Those who see the whole Muslim World
as their slave. Those who show the audacity to crossing out their own frontier and slice the body of a journalist into many pieces after they distort the body with the heinous acid burn and propagate a false propaganda deliberately.
Now is time to stop them forever. Those who became healthy and wealthy with the money that they acquired of from us, from the Indonesians, Malaysians, Algerians, Nigerians pilgrims.
Those who know only to rape the world by their audacious petrodollars.
Those who know only to show their audacity, cockiness, flamboyancy with their glittered, gilded Marcedes, Rolls-Royce, Porsche and those who lust the womanhood as a bunch of whores without any name and destination. Now is the time to castrate the whole dynasty. Please raise your voice and say together, let the Saudi dynasty vanished forever.
The mail train reached just before the dawn. The city was weeping for its old aborigins. Still, they keep out their invisible artworks across the walls, narrow streets and in the alleys. The smokes of the ancient cigars and weeds still boomerang even in this inexorable industrialization which only drags the civilization onto the hopeless realm. A realm that secretly mingled with west and east. An eyewash civilization of organized faith! Organized looting and organized banditry!
49, you are cruel and brutal. You’re the vulture of a Zoroastrian temple of everlasting suffering. You snuggle as an embryo inside the purified star. 49, I would say, I lost everything and prone to conceive another corporeal image as a withered heart willingly pounded by the worldly brutality and thus keep my worming to survive in this heavenlike Earth. 49, I need to breathe, innocent breathing like the tree. 49, you revealed as an Avatar as you appeared as a brief introduction of my perpetual savior.
How do I send my words to you?
I don’t know since every river dried away
With the grudges of decays.
You know well, I don’t believe in time
Don’t believe in hatred
And I remain secluded as my primordial self.
Just shatter your nutshell
Shatter your grudges
Or I’ll flow down as a creek underneath your feet.
My funny valentine strode away with some kangaroo cry
And I got a yellow rob bag instead of a yellow sigh.
You know I’ve tasted the whole world and sniffed around like a dog
But found the peace only in the wordings of the ancient Gurus and the way they bog.
If this rain continues to fall for a thousand of years. Will it cure the sorrow that has spread around the stratums spilling out of fossil oils? And one day the classical Bengal that had observed by Jibonando Das will have disappeared along with the variations of Delta. Nowadays the silts also pervade throughout the urban wind for a preposterous change. The river also stumbles down resembling a truck with a hundred of million tons of garbages. Yet the people still dreaming out of their heritage, Vatiyari, Vawaiyya Songs. The wind is filled with the acute stink of unsocial science. And the time bomb of plastic lurking throughout the bathroom to drawing room, from greenroom to health room. The river that flows down throughout out the soft and flexible source of our throat have also been covered with the million of plastic fossils as the earth filled with the Dynasaur once. Thus the way sorrow became as cheaper as the meadow grass, though the original sorrow remains as a hard to find the object. And you won’t get an original feeling if you rigged out for a voyage and you’ll realize that how the pack of plastic Bottles and Polythenes have intrigued a policy to extinct out the beautiful birds of the earth. Therefore, we have to take it for granted that we shall float on the sea, along with our all histories. And keeping in mind, we have to pay up 17% tax to the group of people who remains as the most failure terrorist of all time and those who lusted the world as a young whore without any name and destination.
From the beginning of our growing process, we began to take it for granted the some of the old whining ideas. And as we grew old, we learned simultaneously the recitation of Holy Quran as a tradition and during that learning period the Hujur(who teaches Quran) always scolded the westerners without any reason as Yahudi and Nasara, whenever they got chance.
So we are growing old and trying to hold out our own philosophies, that’s okay.
But today when I was coming across a commercial street, I heard something more, “oh those Jews and Christians are just screwing us and so to my working place, which is a very common phenomenon when some Mullahs always gather out in the translation center for such trivial issues. But I always tries to take a stance against those wrong views. Yet, will there be any cure when most of the blub of the paves related to those xenophobic issues which are originated from Arab. Remember we are in such country where you find a madrasha student from every three pupil.
Today, I learned a great lesson from a Zen Magazine. The editorial said that, “the mind which you used to hold on isn’t your. That’s a very common quote with whom I encountered with many times, but today it became comprehensible to me. For instance, a Zen story narrated that, “the essence of your mind isn’t born, so it’ll never die…. It’s not an existence, which is perishable. It’s not an emptiness, which is a mere void…….it enjoys no pleasures and suffers no pain.”
Yes, after experiencing a weekend long meditative state that stands as a great discovery from my side, when I comfortably lost myself into the trance and realized this mind isn’t mine, it just endowed to me for a while. So it’s a complete detachment since this last attachment called “mind” got lost from me, and only thing that I have to do with it is to take care of it. Even though the mind is not mine but the caring must be drastic.
I always dote on to you throughout the samsara
Like a lonely star in the empty sky.
A leftover of memories after the annihilation of all stars
And they also bound to be converged like you and me.
After the end of all hopes
While a seagull takes a flight within the border!
Being a meteor I have to turn to the earth
And you’re my earth, only earth that I know.
sometimes I took a long straiten rout
to centrifugate through the misconceptions.
But sometimes I just ever turning to my only earth
And those sometimes are utterly timeless.
Because I don’t believe in time
while you stand behind.