Look at me— no rice in my house, only boiled potatoes on the stove, walls that shake before the storm hits, clothes worn thin and patched, no shine, no means to spare...
I see my child reading primers, writing A-B-C, অ-আ-ক-খ... wondering if the world is flat or round, playing with cheap dolls from the fair...
Let the cold bite from all sides, let there be no quilts or coverlets, let even the roof above us sag and fall— this heart still holds a sleepless spring!
When your children grow on ice cream's dizzy chill, mine grow on half an egg, maybe one whole.