I.
In Puthimari’s honeyed air,
Where music spun like sunlight there,
Zubeen Garg’s voice—a wildfire’s call—
Burned bright, and we were part of all.
Till suddenly, the world let go:
My knees forgot the earth below.
The crowd, the stars, the singing stream
Dissolved into a swaying dream.
But three names cut through—sharp, alive—
Jintu. Masihur. Aminul. Arrived.
No grand speech, just hands that gripped,
And pulled me from the dark I’d slipped.
Remember this when shadows loom:
Love’s not the spark—it’s who relights your flame.
II.
One friend beside you in the black
Outshines a thousand at your back.
Not for their words, but how they stay—
A compass when you’ve lost your way.
They don’t just walk where pathways gleam,
They map the roads you’ve never seen.
And if you falter? They’re the ground.
No crown, no cape—just found, found, found.
So name them now, these rare hearts true,
Who need no oath to see you through.
For time will thin both gold and glare,
But this—this bond—outlasts the air.