Ask not my country Or state. Ask not my trade Or job. Ask not my tongue Or region. Ask not the colour Of my blood. Ask
My difficulties lay deeper. It was more than I could believe that Jesus was the only incarnate Son of God, and that only he who believed in him would have
Tagore! You are our poet, our identity, Our leader, our mentor, To whom we return At dark nights and in shining days. Tagore! You are a torch-bearer, A cool
1 Bilkis! you are not Lucrece you have no lily hand or rosy cheek and your eyes are not marigolds, hair not golden threads either or skin snow white.
“কেমন আছো?” “ভালোরে ভাই।” মুখে হাসি নেই, চোখের সেই ঝিলিক নেই, শরীরের সেই ভাষা নেই। “কোথায় থাকিস?” “বনে জঙ্গলে।” আমাকে আজাদ ভাই এবং উনার মতো আরও অনেকে ভদ্র ছেলে হিসেবে
“Tut, tut! Come quick, help my hair,” a well-built, bald man, aged fifty, hitched up the dirty curtain and stormed into the lean-to, and sat heavily on the lonely rusted
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