For Hoshiarpur

1 minute read

turns pink at sunset
the setting sun casts a tint
on nameless faces,
nameless roads,
nameless graves.
the setting sun sets fire
to the fields
the smoke, making its way to the other side,
abandoned havelis
house the bloodstains from partition,
a broken memory
weaved with pain, anger and loss.
the smoke reaches the border
crop dust mixed with blood and memory,
greeting it’s old inhabitants,
carrying the comfort of home,
and the loneliness of refuge.
the barren fields of mehina
sing for their return
the flowers in jatpur and chabbewal
demand to see the graves,
the weeds recite Habib’s poetry,
cemeteries demand a homecoming.
treasure chests house a pile of bones
crop dust mixed with blood and memory.

hoshiarpur mourns punjab,
hoshiarpur celebrates Durga,
as a Sialkot mistress plays shatranj
outside the radio station
while a rusting blade
hangs from her waist,
as the sun drowns in the arms of the universe
and the stars comfort the moon.

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