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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
Let the brief time be cast away,
Let the movable thread be loosely handled,
Let the shadow be cast on you,
Let the water flow over the distant edges.
But when you know you’ll never get the wanderer back,
Even as you cast him off,
When you tally the drifters,
They’re all misplaced and undone.
The Moirai will let him go,
Because, you know,
You only need him when the lights are burning low,
And sympathy wears veils no daylight wants to show.
His shadow is turning into a gyre,
Spin after spin;
Wearing lonesome attire,
Only his body is the circling machine.
His dreams come slow,
But they go so fast.
Perhaps they were never his,
Just echoes in the gyre’s turning shadow.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
A glass within a glass;
in that glass, I seek.
A life within a life;
in that life, I find an unknown movie.
Passing distant echoes,
chasing unforgettable letters and pauses,
finding comfort in the words,
searching for meaning in a glass within.
There is a transparent figure;
I confront myself with an unsatisfied appetite.
There is a wholesome attitude;
I return to myself, and then someone is finally abandoned.
I used to curse my glass for a long time.
I used to urge myself to be forgotten.
I shaped myself into something vast:
a life within a body that strides into the unknown.
I contradicted my reflection with a mouthful of pretty lies.
The light reflects like dice in the glass in my mind.
For so long, I have been trying to chase an unknown dream:
from where I stand to where I am destined.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
I want to write a single line, just one,
to hold within my memoir’s quiet space,
where sorrow and joy dissolve together,
becoming something weightless, something whole.
Perhaps it will be my final offering,
the only treasure I take with me.
A life steeped in unrelenting grief—
what else can I craft but a fleeting companion?
The words the world desires are not mine;
I write only for the silence within.
Each line pulled from beneath my skin,
yet they remain nothing but passing echoes.
I write to escape what lingers too long,
to stretch joy before it disappears,
to hush the chaos beneath my ribs,
to find comfort in letters and pauses.
This hollow refuge is all I own,
the journey, once hidden, is now my fate.
Perhaps I will never truly exist
until I write a poem that feels like life.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
Becoming a slave to my own paradise,
Becoming clingy to my own disregarded appetites,
Becoming a prisoner of my own created prison,
Becoming lonesome in my own crowd.
Recognising something lethal,
Pouring out something eternal,
Bearing some dirt of civilisation,
Tearing apart the burden of my own existence.
I've created my own traps,
Living forever in my own satire.
No appeal on the docket today;
I crave the unseens.
When the sins are unseen,
What verdicts can there be?
When the prisoner is the judge,
Is he called a metaphor of his own book?
So I've hold my head up high—
Hiding hatred that burns inside.
Perhaps this is not the last;
Perhaps this is an endless circle.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
I retreat into myself,
Cursing my name like an idiom.
I realise my curse;
It is but this phase I have dived into.
I just detach myself from the glass.
It is always a stressful game.
I long for the heavenly pride.
Such a tide comes when I take such a stride!
I cannot help but wait for a lasting punishment.
I cannot save myself.
I cannot help but escape within.
I cannot but be used to my salient classics.
There was a remarkable midnight,
The last time I closed my eyes.
My brain is being fragmented;
Now, my heart is but an illusion to me.
Though we are in fallacies,
My other selves have turned, just as I have.
I am accustomed to being my own paradise:
Yet any sanctuary I build serves only to trap me within.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
In the storm of my mind,
You were my quiet yearning.
Nothing to hold onto, nothing to chase,
Nobody can adjust to this phase.
Do not claim the jargon words,
Words mean nothing when they are hollow.
Letters and pauses are only the reflections of my urge
To put you in my precious seat.
I see a scarlet paradise,
Beneath the fabrics, beneath the skin.
I can even see what's underneath your skull,
My heart is nothing but an omniscient witness.
When you claim that you are feeling all alone,
Isn't that worthy of being welcomed?
When you claim that you do not want to be left alone,
Isn't it pleasurable to be denied?
The empty clock reminds me of your sweet but mean promises,
Temporary happiness is what you always crave.
But I have been an equivocator for so long,
I just want to see what my strides mean to you.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
Let the fall of your habits come while the windows are down,
Let the fall of your memories come in this tremendous town,
Let the fall of your appetite arrive until it is not deserved,
Let the winter come when you have not truly lived anymore.
Let the snow roll over in your dreams,
When the door was open, you were in false fallacies,
Let your little shadow cast on me,
I never took your appearance leaning on me.
Bury all of your secrets in my skin,
Bury until you are falsely clean,
Bury all the pictures and candid acclaim,
Bury our existence until we are buried in our graves.
You were a tiny dragon,
I was looking for a pure pigeon,
While you used to breathe on my shoulder,
I was counting on your deathbed wishes.
Until your last wish, I am only mine,
Could never be your candid appetite.
I am used to being my own paradise,
Where fall lasts only two months.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2024
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
I have met you in my mind,
You have been a reflection of my desire.
I have worshipped you in my favourite mirror,
You have been a quiet echo in others’ eyes.
I never judged you inside the canvas,
Never found you in my head,
Never placed you on the stage,
Never let you out of my heart.
So many people to see,
So many places to go,
So many things to learn,
Yet I confine myself to your memoir.
To live in you is nothing but a daydream,
To be stuck in your voice is merely a yearning to be brave.
To get you out of the lonesome island
Is to get rid of the nothingness inside my head.
I will make you a dark circumference,
While you live in the encrypted figure.
No one can snatch you out of this cage,
Where you are destined—in the imaginary no man’s land.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
I was drenched in black water,
Yet, it looked as though I were dried out.
I stood before a lighthouse,
Yet, remained unseen.
Gazing into the sea’s blackness,
The highest tides forever circled me.
My eyes could find no anchor,
As my dark hands sailed towards the farthest shore.
My home, too, was cloaked in shadow;
Something unseen, yet present, walked with me there.
The map and the wanderer within me never agreed.
Colours were but drifting sailors in my life’s vast sea.
Different souls sail different paths,
Tides come and go.
Memoirs float like driftwood.
Something vast yet fragile appears near the stones.
My grave is smaller than the stones,
Its epitaph; empty and black.
I performed on countless beaches,
Yet, nothing remains visible on this blackest shore.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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Abir Hossain Sawran Poem
I wake to the desert, talking to the wind;
its voice is dry and muffled.
Sand cuts my skin as I walk;
nowhere feels like a place I belong to.
The seeming figs glow like a distant fire.
My feet are melting with every step I take.
I lose my balance when I stride;
I am surprised as the light darkens me.
Flames whirl at the edge of my sleep.
Dolores remains there, carrying fragments in her hair.
She murmurs, "Take care of my loved ones".
I turn around, but her stare does not leave me.
Water is only a mirage in my eyesight.
I watch their tiny faces drowning in silence.
I choke my breath as I consume the grime;
I confront myself, saying, "They cannot die".
They illustrate that the truth awaits at the edge.
My fist holds a gun, empty and cold.
Comfort lies in lying down and forgetting:
where living means losing myself in the unknown.
Copyright © Abir Sawran | Year Posted 2025
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