My fingers run across a map and they bleed

My fingers ran through the edges of these lines
Mapping my memory of spilled blood
Baghdad, Damascus, Anfal
We rise against darkness only to fall
Karachi, Homs, Srinagar
A world held hostage by a trigger
Continue reading “My fingers run across a map and they bleed”

The Country Without a Post Office by Agha Shahid Ali

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1

Again I’ve returned to this country
where a minaret has been entombed.
Someone soaks the wicks of clay lamps
in mustard oil, each night climbs its steps
to read messages scratched on planets.
His fingerprints cancel bank stamps
in that archive for letters with doomed
addresses, each house buried or empty.

Continue reading “The Country Without a Post Office by Agha Shahid Ali”

I didn’t raise my kids to fit into tiny graveyards

They didn’t raise their kids to fit into tiny graveyards

I mourn
childhoods
nipped
of life
like flowers

I mourn
colours
of smiles
moving
like butterflies

I mourn
dreams
of sunny skies
not falling
drone strikes Continue reading “I didn’t raise my kids to fit into tiny graveyards”