By

  In the Coffin of Silence

      Prabir Talukder Pappu


Words are now closed in the four walls.

 The cold is deep inside.

 The tongue, an exiled island,

Losing its power.

The glacier of distance, thickening every day —

The last call trembles deep in the lips,

Yet remains mute at the touch of the finger.

Time has sunk into darkness,

In its graveyard,

My unspoken words, like unknown letters — asleep, still.

The fear in utterance, makes me alone,

A chained sigh grows in my being.

I am like an abandoned library,

Only dust and silence exist.

Unexpressed love, unsaid pain —

All are lost today.

 

Author's Bio



Prabir Talukder Pappu was born on January 1, 1979, in Kamargaon, Chamardani Union, Madhyanagar Upazila, Sunamganj. He has been writing songs, poems, and rhymes since childhood. His published poetry collections are Pandulipir Kobita, Songkolon 2 (2023) and Pandulipir Kobita, Songkolon 3 (2024).

 

Comments

  1. Satyajit MondalJuly 17, 2025 at 9:58 PM

    This poem says still 'Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.'
    How rightly says Jean-Jacques Rousseau!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Deb Proshad HalderJuly 17, 2025 at 10:03 PM

      Definitely. The state apparatus will never let us be free.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Haven’t Seen You a Million Years

By
Image
Haven’t Seen You a Million Years Mahadev Saha It’s been a million years since I saw you last.  If I could be sure I’d see you once again, Like Vidyasagar I’d swim across the full-flowing Damodar. I’d cross the English Channel a thousand times. If I knew, just once- I’d get to see you, I’d climb these prison walls with ease, race through the kingdom of serpents, even wander the trembling city where fighter jets circle above. If only I knew I’d see you once again I’d walk across the burning desert barefoot, cross the barbed wires, Leaving all shame and hesitation  I'd roam all social circle, every park or fair. For that one meeting, that single assurance, I’d cross this world’s distance effortlessly. When did I see you last? When? which Thursday? It’s been a million years since I saw you last . Poet's Photo: Poet's Bio:  Mahadev Saha is one of the leading poets of post-independence Bangladesh. Through his wonderful literary creations he has earned a wide fanbase a...
Read more
By
Image
  Daily Degradation — Suman Biswas In the tranquil breeze now sleeps the holy Serpent— merging with the world, it pours its poison into the air. Power swells like a rising flood. The bandit's Jagadish   tills  the soil with hate; the sages drift into oblivion, dreams shattered in vain. And thus, Rangpur has  turned into Raurava — all around, the pride of harmony  falls apart day by day. NB : This poem is written in Bangla maintaining the metrical genre called ' matrabitto chondo' This translation is in prose genre---interestingly we are all genre-fluid. Poet;s Bio : Shubhendu Bhushan Biswas ( Suman Biswas ) was born in Jashore in 1987. He is a prolific writer writing in Bangla. He has been writing metrical poems from early age, and can be called ' a poet of prosody' belonging to the 'Pandulipi Group'. He published his first poem collection " Projanmer Padda" in 2024, and contributed poems to  " Pandulipi'r Kabita Sangkolon" 1 (2021), ...
Read more

The Nose Ring

By
Image
The Nose Ring Al Mahmud My mother’s golden nose ring was lost, I searched here and there across all Bangladesh. I went to the river and asked, is it with you? Don’t touch, my body filled with silver boal fish- river replied. At the bend of Harinber, Titas River cries, Where white herons shed feathers and flies. Leaving water I wandered into the forest, Where green parrots sparkled like emeralds. I pleaded to the forest, return it to me brother! I want to go home with my mother’s jewelry. Forest sighed, how can we find your mother’s lost treasure? We are just birds and ordinary wild creatures.  I went to the hill, expanding it's chest- it said, I wear flowers in green hair, not nose rings, But if you want the scent of blossoms, Take it, stretch out your hands. A thousand deer hid their faces amid the leaves. Downing dark tresses, then came the long-haired night, and I started marching, Without my mother’s jewelry, I'm not returning.  Poet's Photo:  Poet's Bio:  Al Mah...
Read more