Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
Biography
My name is Alam Mahbub, a poet from Bangladesh. I am writing to respectfully submit five original poems for your kind consideration for publication in Poetry Unites People.
The submitted poems are unpublished and are presented as original poetic works. I would be honored if you find them suitable for inclusion in your esteemed journal.
Thank you very much for your time and consideration. I look forward to hearing from you.
With warm regards,
Alam Mahbub
The Day the Rivers Will Fly by Alam Mahbub
Poems are drifting in the air,
the blind are learning to see.
At dawn, someone
covers the roads with the quilt of night.
In the wind of a lightless dark,
the music of weeping plays.
In hidden corners,
hatred slowly thickens,
inch by inch.
At the threshold of possibility,
the red fury of fire
peers through.
In a surge of unity,
the walls of resistance crack open.
Dreams awaken
from the grief of defeated lives.
The harvest will no longer
fill the landlord’s granary.
Beloved flowers will stain spring with color.
Rivers will spread their wings and fly
over the evening park.
Perhaps the good day arrives there—
at the end of a weary way.
Manifesto of Silent Love by Alam Mahub
Life is a runaway diesel engine,
racing endlessly through nightmares,
cutting through fog
with the hope of a painted dawn ahead—
crossings waiting in silence.
In the proclamation of wordless love,
within the solitude of long sighs,
the pages of night
float in bright light—
a collage of burning.
Immersed love,
quiet surges of emotion
rest in the deepest chambers of the heart.
Forgetting the evening’s spell,
all birds return home.
As the gathering of stories dissolves,
inside the chest
an icon of tomorrow awakens
in a purified voice.
Love alone,
now,
remains the profound impetus of the world.
The Post Office Exists — No Mailbox by Alam Mahbub
Inside torn clouds, a vanished mailbox—
the post office stands,
but no letters arrive.
Who still reads poetry in love,
believes in metaphor and simile?
No one floats the merchant’s installments anymore.
The river has lost its silver waves,
abundant water forgotten.
Only sickly evenings remain,
and night spreads its darkness
over every road with strange black shadows.
Your light beats its wings in blue obscurity;
the sky fills with a hollowed-out sadness.
At times, love erupts like madness,
raising storms—
true to the nature of fire in a spring noon.
A life that waits endlessly for a letter—
in the offering of love,
a blue envelope inscribed with I love you.
That letter never comes.
The post office exists— there is no mailbox
In war, red eyes measure loss.
The stored shadows of tomorrow ignite the evening,
casting light—
at the end of the story, the morning traveler calls out:
open the doors of the shadowed passage.
