Somehow, the taste of tear gas
and fear stuck to my tongue as my father
took me to pray. Cold was the house of god
before he began to speak. He told me he was
somewhere close, and his voice was beautiful
or so it seemed. Everything was suddenly beautiful,
even the floor and the silence of the body and
nation both. At some point I thought 
the imam was crying, and
my father turned 
'he sounds beautiful'
he said. I wonder 
if all we can do in pain
is be beautiful.

Raian Abedin is a poet, a student of Biochemistry, and a contributor to The Daily Star.