Forgetting all the fatigues, an old rickshaw puller was sleeping on his rickshaw and who doesn't have any fair of losing anything.

Everybody writes poetry of life
I return to the rhythm of poetry.

Everyone speaks of pain
I think it's ever going to exist.

Everyone talks about politics
I think I'm not Hitler
I believe in my survival.

Everyone writes stories
I wonder where to start from.

Everyone speaks for themselves
I then searched for the word.

When everyone talks about love
Let me think, a little time.

Everyone talks about death
I can tell you, erase me, you are me.
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Photo was taken at the street of Gulshan lake,Dhaka,Bangladesh.