(Agha Shahid Ali, to think i could ever be as good as you would be foolish thinking, wouldn't it now?)

the history mapped
in the veins
that you recover the poetry
from
seeps in the fractures
i left open, the scars
of memory burns me
when we sit and wait
for war to find
the answer

i wonder how it must feel
to riddle the paradise
on earth
with a showcase of white
and metal pills

the silence of the glass bangles
i put away in the cupboard
hurt
with a dry ache, the constant
reminder of a forgotten turmoil

sometimes, i see hands and sad
smiles, they form
fists in my stomach,
a nostalgia fighting for a cause