O poverty, thou hast made me great. Thou hast made me honoured like Christ With his crown of thorns. Thou hast given me Courage to reveal all. To thee I owe My insolent, naked eyes and sharp tongue. Thy curse has turned my violin to a sword... O proud saint, thy terrible fire Has rendered my heaven barren. O my child, my darling one I could not give thee even a drop of milk No right have I to rejoice. Poverty weeps within my doors forever As my spouse and my child. Who will play the flute?[15] Kazi Nazrul Islam.
Posted on: Sat, 31 Aug 2013 05:17:40 +0000