I remembered the word for communal violence in Gujarati. It came to me. Subliminal. As if my memories were detached from my tongue, prayer from my hands. I typed my fear with careful spelling Because I don't live it. I asked with concern because I can sleep without fire lapping at my dreams. I remembered hatred and agony, but only in translation. Red soil. Separated. Too long from my feet.
2 Comments
|
AuthorI like poems. Archives
July 2021
|