I frighten myself in the way I seek people,
just to hush the noise of my alone.
Perhaps my alone is so loud because it has good things to say
but I am always too afraid to listen.
Then the world falls silent,
As she leaves and he leaves and you leave,
except for the solitary sound,
the sound of my alone.
I have found a song bridging
loneliness and solitude,
that I play on repeat,
and it is the song of my alone.
You could sing the sweetest things,
and offer to sing me to my death,
but as I take my dying breath,
your song will fade and drone.
Until there is
me
only me
and the eternal song of my alone.
It is my song for today
and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
To the last syllable of recorded time
for your beautiful sound and fury,
will not compare to the voice of my alone.
Listen now,
For all our yesterdays would only lead us to arrive,
to the final verse of the eternal song of our alone.
Let us part now, for we must part anyway,
to sing the eternal song of our alone.
Now that I have, it is a song I play on repeat.
I don’t know when I’ll be sick of its voice.
When the vinyl of my solitude will fade again to loneliness.
But for the while, it’s better than anything else I’ve heard.
Writing for Pracheta Ahana Alam is a way of surviving this time that will not sign a peace treaty. She is the founder of Women in Arts, Bangladesh. Recently her work has been a part of the anthology book Golden Bangladesh at 50.