Four corners I have

In one are buried my ancestors.


In the next

There sleeps a cooking pot.


Over the third

thatched roof has a hole through

that rain and sun peep,

There is also a plastic flower,

brought from fair

ages ago, now

Sullied with soot.


And in the  darkest

There is a cot, lousy


And when when we sit

It creaks.

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Abu Siddik

It's all about the unsung , nameless men and women around us. I try to portray them through my tales. I praise their undying suffering and immaculate beauty. And their resilience to life's vicissitudes, oddities, and crudities I admire. They are my soulmates who inspire me to look beyond the visible, the known, the common facade of the educated and the intellectuals.

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