[ultimate_heading main_heading=”Poems by Mosiur Rehman – Issue.XXVII : April 2017 ” main_heading_color=”#1e73be” sub_heading_color=”#8224e3″ spacer=”line_with_icon” spacer_position=”bottom” line_style=”dotted” line_height=”1″ line_color=”#1e73be” icon_type=”custom” icon_img=”id^48|url^http://ashvamegh.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/Ashvamegh-ICO.jpg|caption^null|alt^Ashvamegh Journal Icon|title^Ashvamegh ICO|description^null” img_width=”48″ main_heading_style=”font-weight:bold;” main_heading_font_size=”desktop:34px;” line_width=”3″ margin_design_tab_text=””]sentiments…[/ultimate_heading]

About the Poet:

Mosiur Rehman is a part-time teacher at a high school. He also works for an NGO that aims to provide better education to children from backward and poverty-ridden areas around Contai, West Bengal. Besides other hobbies like listening songs, singing, watching movies and painting, he loves travelling the most.



In the lawn I sat,
Recalling the past days,
There came a thought of fact
This once swept away my gay.
In the field near the vales,
A butterfly sitting on a rock
Unaware of anything else;
As if, it was a rock.
The plants were whistling,
And jocund the environment was,
The yellow flowers looked rocking
On the branches that cares.
But when I saw the little creature
Closely: Oh! My heart melted for it,
And I was unable to tolerate the pain
Of the wounded butterfly, in vain.
How did it get hurt? How?
Did a thorn wound it?
Or any object that is sharp?
Or it once became a frog’s prey?
I could only have understood it,
If I were of the same design like it.


Sitting in the dark
With sadness in his heart,
A poor lorry driver
Was cooking in the dark.
The winter’s cold became more
Which made the fuel-wood cold;
He has to wait there till
All the goods unload.
The falling snow destroyed his food,
Which then became warm to cold,
He thought when the goods are unloaded,
And in vain the cold food he chewed.
Tears rolled down his cheeks
“Oh how tough his life was!”
There was no one around in that place,
To comfort him in his disgrace.
Work might be small or great
It seeks for a true devotion,
Like the poor lorry driver,
Does his duty without rejection.

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