“All the poetry in the world could not put us together again.”

I didn’t ask because I was afraid of the answer.

Heartbroken over a love that didn’t even exist.

And then there are songs I cannot listen to, without hearing you.

How sad to miss someone, who you know doesn’t miss you.

But I fell in love with an impossibility.

Two soulmates who didn’t find each other.

Was I too soft, or was the world too hard?

A story of modern love- two people neither wanting to text first.

Deep down you always knew.

Despite everything I’m glad we met.

You were my dream and the problem with dreams is that you always wake up.

I looked at you and felt the stars go out in my heart.

Find the one you can talk to, when you can’t talk to anybody else.

Your eyes stole all my words away.

Half the world is carrying a broken heart, half the world is dreaming of being put together again.

Maybe one day we will travel the world together.

If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it better not come at all.

Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.

At the age when Bengali youth almost inevitably writes poetry, I was listening to European classical music.

Poetry is the loveliest art. It has a wretched way of revealing our own character when we think we are judging the poets.

There is poetry in your shadows.

If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it better not come at all.

The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar.