<i>Profane chronicle of sacrosanct days</i>

Empty vessel, under the sun… wipe the dust from my face another morning black Sunday coming down again … it is coming down again …
Empty vessel empty veins empty bottles wish for rain that pain again wash the blood off my face the pulse from my brain and I feel that pain again … and I feel that pain again …
Yet it comes back … with sudden rain … with eclipsed sun … with blotched sky lessening the burn … with whispers in the late autumn winds … in a life wasted on foes and friends … and it guts us … without empathy … without remorse …
And we wake up …
… in an orphaned nation full of survived abortion with morbid vision and blurred argumentation to demented augmentation of misinterpreted evolution haunted by frenzied depression daunted by relentless alienation awaiting with anticipation for much yearned redemption yet calculated violation in clockwork regulation ensures informational encapsulation spins off speculation misplaces justification seizes alteration erases revolution seals-off purgation …
Harbingers of damnation orchestrate symphony of destruction …
And we swing … oh yes we swing to the tune of division without the slightest indecision in pointless intoxication like maenads in motion …
… boys toy around the doll's house in Dionysian mirth … girls play tug of war over the myth of creation: accident of birth … the birth of a nation … our hopes of progression fail to reach desired destination internecine feud fuels rampant assassination …
Circle in the sand goes round and round … everlasting hate is what we have found …
Yet it comes back … with sudden rain … with eclipsed sun … with blotched sky lessening the burn … with whispers in the late autumn winds … in a life wasted on foes and friends … and it guts us … without empathy … without remorse …
And we wake up …
… in forgetful hangover we drag ourselves out of bed, clog up the brain … mementos of loss heavier gets the head …
Maybe I always knew … my fragile dreams would be broken for you …
Yet … without procrastination us LaMBs of acculturation from decentered generation product of pseudo-pacifist unification and dominating globalization coat ourselves in corporate lamination for being placed in subaltern designation with ludicrous remuneration … and we perform miracles for THEM without indignation …
The ethereal transmission of fm revolution mass-acquisition of means of communication estranges us in devastating proportion … I-pods and cell-phones and food joints and pool-zones and sleeping pills and soothing drugs and playful mating with Kafkaesque bugs and parental control against life led in full throttle as well as freedom of flight and misadventures at night … everything fails to initiate relation or ignite passion … nothing sways our heart … we hang out together only to end up loathing each other … love takes a one-night-stand … sinks momentarily in oblivious quicksand … with plugged ears and unplugged minds we cover our panopticon with venetian blinds … beyond our tunnel vision reality fades like shadows into night … the catcher in the rye fails to trace the runaway kite …
Yet it comes back … with sudden rain … with eclipsed sun … with blotched sky lessening the burn … with whispers in the late autumn winds … in a life wasted on foes and friends … and it guts us … without empathy … without remorse …
The decapitated, castrated, will to live crawls back …
Lust for life never bites the dust … ever …

Md. Shahidul Alam Chowdhury is Lecturer, Department of English Language and Literature, Premier University, Chittagong.