Poems of Dr. Abu Tahir (India)

Dr. Abu Tahir — A Short Biography:

Dr. Abu Tahir is an academician, researcher, author, poet, and educational administrator, currently serving as the Principal of East Malda B.Ed. College, Malda, West Bengal, India. He holds two Ph.D. degrees, one in Arabic from Patna University (2018) and another in English from Arunodaya University (2026). He also holds Master’s degrees in Arabic and English, along with B.Ed. and M.Ed. degrees, and qualified the UGC-NET in Arabic in 2013.

His academic and research interests span Arabic and English literature, literary criticism, philosophy, education, interdisciplinary studies, and contemporary technology. A multilingual scholar, he is proficient in Bengali, English, Arabic, Urdu, and Hindi. He has authored numerous books, including Riba and Islamic Banking, Iklil al-Ajhar wa al-Auraq, Hidayatun Nahw, Al-Khidmat, Al-Najah Al-Tahir, Foundation of Artificial Intelligence, Prokritir Protidhwoni, Moddhoratrir Maya, Swopner Srot, and Jiboner Rekhachitro. His research papers, literary writings, poems, and book chapters have appeared in various journals, edited volumes, and national and international anthologies.

Dr. Tahir has received numerous literary, educational, academic, and social recognitions, including the Indian Glory Award (2023), Rashtriya Pratibha Sammaan (2024), Best Author Award (2024), International Amar Bharat Sahitya Ratna Award (2024), Shiksha Ratna Honour (2024), Banga Shreshtha Award (2025), and World Literature Laureate and Gold Medal Honour (2025). Through his sustained engagement with teaching, research, educational leadership, literature, and creative writing, he continues to contribute to the interdisciplinary landscape of contemporary scholarship and literary culture.

THE EIGHTIETH DAWN OF FREEDOM

Dr. Abu Tahir

A Tahirian Verse on India’s 80th Independence Day — 15 August 2026

(ABACBDDCC rhyme scheme)

Seventy-nine years have crowned our land with light, 

While freedom sings from mountain unto sea; 

This eightieth dawn unfolds in saffron bright, 

And wakes the dreams our martyrs carried home. 

Their fearless voices shaped our destiny, 

They walked through chains where darker shadows lay, 

To give our children an unshackled day; 

And now their memories guard our common home, 

Beneath one sky where countless spirits roam. 

From Himalayan snow to southern seas we stand, 

Where many tongues compose one melody, 

And every faith adds colour to the land, 

While ancient rivers carry dreams toward home. 

Our strength is born from living unity, 

No difference should turn our hearts away, 

For freedom grows when justice lights the way; 

And every child may call this nation home, 

With equal right beneath the azure dome. 

Remember those who walked against the night, 

Who dreamed of India fearless, proud and free; 

Their sacrifice became tomorrow’s light, 

Though many never saw their soldiers home. 

Their blood became the roots of liberty, 

Their courage still accompanies our way, 

And asks what we have done with freedom today; 

For independence is not stone or chrome, 

But justice flowering in the poorest home. 

O India, let knowledge be your flame, 

Let science sail beyond the waiting sea; 

Let truth and kindness dignify your name, 

And let no hatred find within you room. 

Let every mind breathe fearless liberty, 

Let women walk in safety night and day, 

Let hunger, fear and prejudice decay; 

Then freedom shall eternally bloom, 

And hope shall rise where once there gathered gloom. 

The tricolour ascends into the light, 

Its Ashoka wheel speaks endlessly of peace, 

Its colours hold our promises in sight, 

And summon every heart to guard our home. 

May hatred fade and human bonds increase, 

May truth remain the compass of our way, 

May peace become our greater strength each day; 

From village path to every distant home, 

May freedom live wherever Indians roam. 

So on this Eightieth Independence Day, 

We raise our grateful voices, proud and free, 

And pledge to keep the darkness far away, 

While building India as our common home. 

A nation strong in peace and dignity, 

Where every generation finds its way, 

And guards the freedom born that August day; 

Till history writes beneath the endless dome, 

“In freedom, India made the world her home.” 

Jai Hind!

THE MUSEUM OF UNWRITTEN POEMS

Dr. Abu Tahir

There is a museum no traveller can visit.

It has no marble staircase,

No numbered galleries,

No guards beside the doors.

Yet it is larger than history.

Here sleep the poems

A farmer composed beneath the sun

But never learned to write;

The lullaby of a mother

Whose village vanished from the map;

The final sentence of a prisoner

Who had no paper;

The love song of a girl

Who swallowed her voice

Because her century

Had forbidden her to speak.

Here are poems lost in migration,

Poems drowned with unnamed sailors,

Poems buried under battlefields,

Poems whispered into pillows

And forgotten before morning.

I walk through this invisible museum

With empty hands.

There are no manuscripts to touch,

Yet every wall is breathing.

From somewhere

A voice asks:

“Who remembers those

Who left no books behind?”

I have no answer.

So I place my own poem

On the floor

Like a small candle.

Not for kings.

Not for conquerors.

Not for those whose statues

Already argue with eternity.

I light it for the anonymous—

For the woman whose grief

Never entered literature,

For the labourer whose hands

Built a library

He was never allowed to enter,

For the refugee

Who carried a homeland

Inside one broken word,

For the child

Whose first poem

Was interrupted by war.

If poetry has a duty,

Perhaps it is this:

To hear what history

Was too busy to hear,

To preserve the heartbeat

That statistics erase,

And to return a name

To those whom time

Has called unknown.

One day

Our books too will become dust.

Our signatures will fade.

But somewhere beyond paper,

Beyond fame,

Beyond the applause of our age,

The unwritten poems

Will continue speaking—

And perhaps

They will be the ones

That judge

Whether we were truly poets.

WHEN THE LAST BORDER FORGETS ITS NAME

Dr. Abu Tahir

I asked the earth,

“Why do you carry so many borders?”

She opened her ancient hands

And showed me rivers

That had never learned

The grammar of division.

The birds crossed nations

Without passports.

The clouds entered forbidden skies

Without apology.

Only we—

The children of one dust—

Had taught the horizon

To fear itself.

Then a poet came,

Carrying no flag,

Only a page

White enough for every colour.

He wrote the word human

In a language no empire owned.

A mother understood it

Through her tears.

A child understood it

Through hunger.

A soldier understood it

When he lowered his weapon

And heard, across the silence,

Another soldier

Calling someone “Mother.”

That evening,

Maps began trembling

Inside their frames.

One thin line disappeared,

Then another.

The mountains remained mountains.

The rivers remained rivers.

The moon belonged to no republic,

And the stars refused

To declare their nationality.

Perhaps peace will begin

Not when every nation speaks alike,

But when every nation learns

To hear the heartbeat

Beneath another language.

And perhaps the final poem

Will need no translation—

Because on that morning

The last border

Will wake from its long dream,

Look into the face of the earth,

And forget

Its name.