Jasmine and Rain
Beneath the monsoon clouds that engulf Old Dhaka,
with the sound of rickshaws clattering and cobblestone whispers mingling,
is Mira's homemade of clay and bamboo,
infused with the scent of jasmine and nestled against the sound of rain.
When the city is still dreaming, at the first sigh of dawn,
With her fingers writing the day's events with smoke and unsaid hopes,
she awakens the hearth.
Wearing a variety of colored sarees, she makes her way toward her purpose.
A tricky balancing act between responsibilities and dreams.
She carries earthen pots, laden with the promise of the day,
down busy lanes teeming with stories and spices.
Their contents, each drip bearing witness to her silent sacrifices,
are as valuable as slowly melting ice.
In the market's raucous heart, her voice—a tender vine—
Twines through the tumult, a soft yet enduring grace.
She peddles spices, each ground seed imbued
With the essence of her soul, a subtle, enduring trace.
Her hands, painted with turmeric’s ancient gold,
Sketch unseen tales in the vibrant air,
Echoes of ancestors whose spirits, bold and unyielding,
Shine through her gaze, fierce and clear.
As the expanse of the city is enveloped in twilight,
Mira retraces the fragrant pathways of the day—the sway of cumin, the call of cardamom.
Returning to her hearth, where silent plays are hosted by shadows,
And her dreams scale the walls, reaching for the silent stars.
She finds comfort in her small haven beneath the thick blanket of darkness,
her spirit's troubles lifted.
As the Ganges speaks of routes, beneath the moon's soft touch
Her story is intertwined into the timeless fabric of people who shape, not simply endure, as she winds down to the morrow.