Everything happens in its own way- everything regardless of your sighing or my prayer. The sun doesn't have any heart. The moon's eternal incandescense spreads over the benighted earth.The grave doesn't cry.The river goes on indifferent.The wind sweeps across deserts. Sands shift, old patterns are redrawn, ancient puzzles newly solved. What else? Through the alpine passage of the central Asia once came the mighty brigand of Chengis Khan and now they are gone. Mohenja-daro Harappa Vikings Aztecs. Gone. I tell you one thing- the ambulance in Palestine that carries the bits and pieces of children's head is a mystery. With smashed heads, blood in face, bullet in their jelly-bodies, they play on land, on water, over clouds, with grenades and guns, with God's silken robe, with God's white beard. The problem is they can't make their parents stop crying. They can't make their parents believe that they are alive, alive, alive; more alive than their murderers.
Yasif Ahmad Faysal teaches English at the University of Barishal.
