Sixteen Years Poem by Jinnuraine Jaigirdar

Sixteen years—
a history like a river,
abundant, flowing with promises of development.
Yet Dhaka stands today—
a polluted heart, choking in the middle of the world.
Hundreds of roads, bridges, culverts, flyovers—
monuments of progress—
Yet a river of blood flowed beneath their shadows.

Sixteen years were called a time of advancement:
health and education swelling with numbers,
while disappearances and murders became daily companions.
The economy soared into the sky,
But thousands of crores fled into exile.

Sixteen years were moments of progress—
an artistic grave, heavy with stories untold.
All the pits of conscience were buried,
a thousand pulpits rose in the call to prayer;
and the melody of a thousand voices fell silent.

Sixteen years—
Only party gatherings knew safety.
Thousands of loves perished, unguarded, unseen.
For you, it was a season of love.
For me, it was the last resurrection.