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.
1 Comment
Shabbir Diwan
10/19/2015 07:15:34 am
They are so touching Naaz. Thanks for giving me the privilege to read it. Please post more of your poems from past and present so we can savor it. Thanks again for sharing a part of you with us.
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July 2021
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