MOON DREAM 

I could make a kite

From the petals of my heart

To be flown by my son

As a magic carpet,

Instead of an elegy

Lamenting my death. 

Though the moon cannot die

Let it be my epitaph

On the petals of the sky

Written with the stars.

Or the gospel of Buddha 

That I might leave with him

And be an eremite, 

Then he could touch 

The mystery of my hair

And make it a switch 

Turned into a wish,

To stop the thunder of guns,

That annoys meditation, 

Killing Bidyapati and the moon.

I could not reach the moon

Because it was under my pillow

Or behind his brow covered with thought. 

I dived into the bay

To gather lost moments, 

Distilled with the honey

Oozed from mermaid dreams.

The moon became the pearl,

And clouds petalled oysters,

To be merged with the wings

Of the peacock night.

He could not drink the coffee 

Because it was my blood

Served in the skull of Bidyapati.

Sad moments turned to shadow

Devouring the mermaid, 

Like Hemingway 

To be shot by his own gun.

He went down the stairs

Caged in my ribs,

And wanted to dance 

Accompanied by the 

Drumbeats of my heart. 

Frozen into a dream of deathless life

My heart missed a bulb 

Which could withstand love,

And shot into a red dahlia. 

(Oct. 1981)

Halima Khatun was a Bangladeshi activist, writer and academic. She took part in Bengali Language Movement in 1952 along with other activists including Rawshan Ara Bachchu. She was the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award in 1981 and Ekushey Padak posthumously in 2019.