1 minute read

Dying undying.
Living unliving.
Where do I belong?
I peek through whitewashed windows and see golden lights,
Stars maybe, if stars resided on
Barren earth.
They say blood adds nutrients to the soil.
Our cheeks had blood once, you know;
You can see it in the old photographs,
Burned photographs,
Burned edges of the photographs
The only things that are now left in my chest.

I do not know what to do, I say,
To whom I do not know.
Who hears, I do not know.
The ones to ask?
There are questions they want me to answer.
Bullets shattering in my earbuds
Tell me I do not belong.

Juggling in between,
Dying - undying.
Living - unliving.
Die then, I know their eyes say -
Bomb shells,
Bullet pallets.
A displaced shoe,
A deflated hot-air balloon.
I used to dream in colour.
Now it’s just white.
White like the whitewashed houses through the windows of which I see colours -
Colours like red, like my daughter’s favourite frock
Or yellow, like my wife’s favourite saree.
I wonder where they are now - that frock and that saree.
Maybe it’s the ash beneath my feet.
We used to sleep on a bed, believe it or not,
Before gravity exploded beneath us,
Flung the pillows off to Space
While we clung on to fences buried two centimetres into the ground
Because on the other side we saw faces not marred with black
Strange faces
And stranger voices.
Like bombs
And bullets.
Shattered glass
And shattered dreams.

Shattered lives,
In limbo.

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