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Forty-Seven

Poetry & Prose | April 27, 2015

Summer days a la fairy tale:

a promenade down my memory lane,
a road trip through the valley’s rain.
Meant to be missed,
our Alfonso mangoes picked.

Now and then, then and now
whispers of danger visited us.
They aimed to make aware:
‘Freedom comes second to fear’

They remained unattended,
for freedom comes unguarded.
We sent back whispers of hope,
they died on their way;
bare & disregarded.

Now and then, then and now,
Nostalgia knocks:
knock knock.
But the house is empty
and the home is broken,
for what childhood taught us is all forgotten.

Ninety days of this summer,
each whispers to the other:
A bullet for you, a bullet for me
in the name vain of azaadi*

A twisted Disney story
– a beast that hates his beauty.
An unfortunate fate of unfairness
– a writer’s source of tragedy.

Now we’re here, here we are
cross-legged on a curfewed night.
Some skies pour, some stand still
some speak silence:
how much longer till?

Summer days are not so much the fairy tales.
For fairy tales are dreamt not sold.
But summer days have now been bought,
bought cheap.

As Iqbal mentioned in forty-seven;
our freedom too will die forgotten.

* azaadi = freedom (Urdu)

Photo by Niya Shahdad.