There is no room left for scars in my tongue made by teeth while your hands choked my mouth. I will scream until my throat is bruised with grief.
My grief has turned stone. I sling it with the arm of the masked boy from Nowhatta with energy of the David against Goliath.
You have me in the crosshairs. Making me weak in the knees. But by The Lord who gave me life, I will not bend my knees. For it belongs to my lord not to your tyranny.
There will be a time when we will sit on the dastarkhwaan. Narrating the stories of How-We-Won-Our-Freedom.
We will take our kids and stroll through the homes of our national heroes. We will teach them the spirit of sacrifice and love for freedom. Our kids salute with their tiny fingers and soft palms.
I will speak of that Old grandfather who gave me refuge when the military ran after me. His smile comforting me with the sips from the cups of nun chai.
Our promised day will come, it has to come. God willing it will.