The broken moon drifts backward,
swirling around the tip of a pine,
mushrooms tasting the blood of ancient roots.
The heart aches for an open-eyed dream
of the land my ancestors once called home
frozen, floating in the river.
Where shall we scatter their remains?
The streets stare, caught in between
so many farewells to friends
who held their breath in their mouths.
Ferocious smoke rises from the east,
west, north, and south,
like charcoal rekindled from a summer barbecue.
To a silent night in Kashmir
may your heart be wrapped in the finest silk,
to stop the bleeding from the mosaic floor.
We pray nothing comes between you and your
scared door of strength and humanity.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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