🙏đŸŒŋ🙏đŸŒŋ:🙏đŸŒŋ“The Journey of a Worn-Out

Poem Title: “The Journey of a Worn-Out Bus”

Inside this creaking wooden floor,
Memories sleep, though wheels still roar.
Paint has peeled, and seats have torn,
Yet it carries lives from dusk till morn.

The driver hums, the road is long,
Each crack in steel holds a forgotten song.
A passage not of comfort’s grace,
But time and struggle etched in space.

The bus may falter, old and slow,
Yet it teaches what we seldom know—
That journeys count, not just the end,
And broken roads, too, can bend.


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Analysis (English):

This poem reflects the condition of the old bus in the image, symbolizing not just a vehicle but also the endurance of life. The cracked floorboards, faded paint, and broken seats become metaphors for human struggles and resilience. The bus, though aged and worn, still fulfills its duty of carrying passengers, teaching us that imperfection does not end usefulness. Life’s journey, too, is about persistence rather than perfection.


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āĻŦাংāϞা āĻ•āĻŦিāϤা: “āĻāĻ• āĻĒুāϰāύো āĻŦাāϏেāϰ āϝাāϤ্āϰা”

āĻ•াāĻ েāϰ āĻŽেāĻেāϤে āĻ•্āϞাāύ্āϤি āϘুāĻŽা⧟,
āϤāĻŦু āϚাāĻ•া āϘুāϰে, āĻĒāĻĨāχ āϏুāĻŽা⧟।
āϰং āĻ—েāĻ›ে āĻŽুāĻ›ে, āĻ›েঁ⧜া āϤাāϰ āφāϏāύ,
āϤāĻŦু āĻŦāĻšে āĻŽাāύুāώ āϏāĻ•াāϞ-āϏাঁāĻāύ।

āĻĄ্āϰাāχāĻ­াāϰ āĻ—ুāύāĻ—ুāύ, āĻĒāĻĨ āĻšā§Ÿ āϞāĻŽ্āĻŦা,
āϞোāĻšাāϰ āĻĢাāϟāϞে āϜāĻŽে āϜীāĻŦāύেāϰ āĻ—াāύ।
āϏ্āĻŦāϏ্āϤি āύেāχ āϤāĻŦু, āϝাāϤ্āϰাāϰ āĻ›াāĻĒ,
āϏāĻŽā§Ÿ āĻ–োāĻĻাāχ āĻ•āϰে āϤাāϰ āĻŽাāύāϚিāϤ্āϰ।

āĻŦাāϏāϟা āϧীāϰে āϚāϞে, āĻ•্āϞাāύ্āϤ–āĻĒুāϰāύো,
āϤāĻŦু āĻļেāĻ–া⧟ āϏāϤ্āϝ, āĻ—োāĻĒāύ āĻ…āĻŽোāϘ—
āϝাāϤ্āϰাāχ āĻŽুāĻ–্āϝ, āĻ—āύ্āϤāĻŦ্āϝ āύ⧟,
āĻ­াāĻ™া āĻĒāĻĨāĻ“ āĻļেāώে āĻĻিāĻ• āϚিāύি⧟ে āĻĻে⧟।


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āĻŦাংāϞা āĻŦিāĻļ্āϞেāώāĻŖ āĻ“ āĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύ:

āĻ›āĻŦিāϰ āĻāχ āĻĒুāϰāύো āĻŦাāϏ āĻļুāϧু āĻāĻ•āϟি āϝাāύāĻŦাāĻšāύ āύ⧟, āĻŦāϰং āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āϜীāĻŦāύেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϚ্āĻ›āĻŦি। āĻĢাāϟা āĻŽেāĻে, āϜীāϰ্āĻŖ āφāϏāύ āφāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āĻĻৈāύāύ্āĻĻিāύ āϏংāĻ—্āϰাāĻŽ āĻ“ āĻ•্āώ⧟েāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•। āĻŦাāϏ āϝেāĻŽāύ āĻ­াāĻ™াāϚোāϰা āĻšā§ŸেāĻ“ āϤাāϰ āĻĻা⧟িāϤ্āĻŦ āĻĒাāϞāύ āĻ•āϰে, āϤেāĻŽāύি āĻŽাāύুāώāĻ“ āϤাāϰ āĻ…āĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖāϤা āύি⧟েāχ āĻāĻ—ি⧟ে āϚāϞে। āϜীāĻŦāύ āύিāĻ–ুঁāϤ āύ⧟, āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āϚāϞাāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝে āφāĻ›ে āφāϏāϞ āϏāϤ্āϝ। āĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύেāϰ āĻĻিāĻ• āĻĨেāĻ•ে āĻāϟি āφāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āĻļেāĻ–া⧟— “āĻ—āύ্āϤāĻŦ্āϝ āύ⧟, āϚāϞাāϰ āĻĒāĻĨāχ āϜীāĻŦāύেāϰ āĻŽূāϞ āĻļিāĻ•্āώা।”


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āφāĻĒāύি āϚাāχāϞে āφāĻŽি āĻāχ āĻ•āĻŦিāϤাāĻ•ে āφāϰāĻ“ āĻĻাāϰ্āĻļāύিāĻ• āφāĻ™্āĻ—িāĻ•ে āϰূāĻĒ āĻĻিāϤে āĻĒাāϰি, āϝেāĻ–াāύে āĻŦাāϏāϟি āĻšāĻŦে āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ “āĻ…āϏ্āϤিāϤ্āĻŦেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•”। āϚাāχ āĻ•ি āφāĻŽি āϏেāϟি āϞিāĻ–ে āĻĻিāχ?
Poem Title: “Bus of Existence”

An old bus crawls on weary streets,
Carrying countless fading beats.
Its body cracked, its spirit worn,
Yet every dawn, it’s still reborn.

The seats recall forgotten pain,
The windows frame both loss and gain.
Each rattle, each uncertain bend,
Becomes a lesson—means, not end.

We too, like buses, rust and tire,
But breath keeps burning, a quiet fire.
Existence thrives, not in perfection,
But in movement—soul’s direction.


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Analysis (English, Philosophical):

The bus here becomes a metaphor for human existence. Just like the old vehicle, our bodies and lives wear down with time, yet we continue our journey. Every crack and every scar holds meaning, reminding us that life’s essence lies not in being flawless, but in continuing despite flaws. The bus is an allegory for the soul’s persistence, teaching that existence is not about reaching the destination but about living through the imperfect journey.


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āĻŦাংāϞা āĻ•āĻŦিāϤা: “āĻ…āϏ্āϤিāϤ্āĻŦেāϰ āĻŦাāϏ”

āĻ•্āϞাāύ্āϤ āĻŦাāϏ āϚāϞে āϧূāϞোāĻŽাāĻ–া āĻĒāĻĨে,
āĻŦāĻšে āϏে āϜীāĻŦāύ āĻ•্āώ⧟ে āϝাāĻ“ā§Ÿা āϰāĻĨে।
āĻ­াāĻ™া āĻļāϰীāϰ, āĻ•্āώ⧟ে āϝাāĻ“ā§Ÿা āĻĒ্āϰাāĻŖ,
āϤāĻŦু āĻ­োāϰ āĻšāϞে āĻļুāϰু āύāϤুāύ āĻ—াāύ।

āφāϏāύে āϜāĻŽে āφāĻ›ে āĻĻুঃāĻ––āϏ্āĻŽৃāϤি,
āϜাāύাāϞা āφঁāĻ•ে āĻšাāϰাāύো–āϜিāϤি।
āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϟি āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ, āĻ•াঁāĻĒা āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāĻ•্āώāĻŖ,
āĻļেāĻ–া⧟ āϚāϞাāχ āϜীāĻŦāύেāϰ āĻĒāĻ āύ।

āφāĻŽāϰাāĻ“ āϤেāĻŽāύি āĻ•্āώ⧟ে āϝাāχ āϧীāϰে,
āϤāĻŦু āφāĻ—ুāύ āϜ্āĻŦāϞে āĻļ্āĻŦাāϏেāϰ āĻ­ি⧜ে।
āĻ…āϏ্āϤিāϤ্āĻŦ āϟিāĻ•ে āĻĨাāĻ•ে āύিāĻ–ুঁāϤ āύ⧟,
āϚāϞাāϰ āĻĻিāĻ•েāχ āφāϤ্āĻŽাāϰ āϜ⧟।


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āĻŦাংāϞা āĻĻাāϰ্āĻļāύিāĻ• āĻŦিāĻļ্āϞেāώāĻŖ:

āĻŦাāϏāϟি āĻāĻ–াāύে āĻ•েāĻŦāϞ āĻĒāϰিāĻŦāĻšāύেāϰ āϝāύ্āϤ্āϰ āύ⧟, āĻŦāϰং āĻŽাāύুāώেāϰ āĻ…āϏ্āϤিāϤ্āĻŦেāϰ āĻĒ্āϰāϤীāĻ•। āĻļāϰীāϰ āϝেāĻŽāύ āĻ•্āώ⧟ে āϝা⧟, āϤেāĻŽāύি āĻŦাāϏেāϰ āĻ•াāĻ াāĻŽোāĻ“ āϜীāϰ্āĻŖ āĻšā§Ÿ। āĻ•িāύ্āϤু āĻāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝ āĻĻি⧟েāχ āϚāϞāϤে āĻĨাāĻ•ে āϜীāĻŦāύ। āĻĒ্āϰāϤিāϟি āĻĢাāϟāϞ āĻ“ āĻļāĻŦ্āĻĻ āφāĻŽাāĻĻেāϰ āĻŽāύে āĻ•āϰি⧟ে āĻĻে⧟—āϜীāĻŦāύেāϰ āφāϏāϞ āĻ…āϰ্āĻĨ āύিāĻ–ুঁāϤ āĻšāĻ“ā§Ÿা⧟ āύ⧟, āĻŦāϰং āĻ…āϏāĻŽ্āĻĒূāϰ্āĻŖāϤাāϰ āĻŽāϧ্āϝ āĻĻি⧟েāχ āĻāĻ—ি⧟ে āϝাāĻ“ā§Ÿা⧟।

āĻāϟি āĻĻāϰ্āĻļāύী⧟āĻ­াāĻŦে āĻŦāϞে—
👉 “āĻ…āϏ্āϤিāϤ্āĻŦ āĻŽাāύে āĻ—āύ্āϤāĻŦ্āϝে āĻĒৌঁāĻ›াāύো āύ⧟, āĻŦāϰং āĻĒāĻĨ āϚāϞাāϰ āϧাāϰাāĻŦাāĻšিāĻ•āϤা।”



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