Today I will share a poem with you. The name is Path.
How many people walk along this path!
Some walk calmly,
Some go at a very fast pace.
Some, as if they don't want to go,
Still, they have to go a long way.
Of course, Path doesn't remember these.
How many more paths can you remember?
The Khan brought his wife in a bullock cart.
Seven children were born to that wife.
Three daughters, married in this village and that village.
Except for the youngest son, all the others went to the city.
The old woman also died a long time ago.
When it rained for months,
Path remembered that time.
Kalimuddin's house was submerged in water.
Anu Mia's baby was bitten by a snake.
It's the responsibility of living in a swamp with fish!
When the water recedes, many die of diarrhea.
The path thought it was old.
Maybe it will soon become useless.
Just like the craftsmen died centuries ago.
But that day a man with a white beard came.
He said, the path does not die. Only the weak die.
This path is eternal, eternal. It will remain forever.
In the poem, I have tried to commemorate a path. The path that has many memories, history. A silent companion of the traveler's happiness and sorrow. The path is a witness to a long history. If it had the opportunity to speak, it would have revealed everything. But the path cannot do that. We do not know many unknown histories. The traveler may not remember those events either.
