When I Will Not Be Here…
When I will not be here,
by Md. Ziaul Haque
Will you miss me?
Will your eyes search for me to see?
When the cattle rush toward the farm,
Covering the setting sun with the flying dust,
Will you miss my arm?
You have to miss me; yes, you must.
As the seeds wait for the sun's ray,
For you my soul will gladly stay.