The Colours of Crossroads

Late Winter, 2012

 

We drove for hours in those days,

each of us lost in thought,

watching life begin again

on the kaleidoscope

of the earth we passed.

It was strange to see a world

untouched by bombs and blasts

and rubble and ash

while we rode through

rolling hills and emerald grass,

that frost

had kissed.

We were driving past a place

where birthday songs were sung,

of those who still

were growing old

of those who still

held on to hope

while we were here,

alone,

separated by sheets of glass,

cramped in seats,

lost in thoughts that were our own

at crossroads,

at crossroads,

watching the falling sun

bleed like the crimson flames

that had licked the mosque

that had licked the school

that had licked every bed we had ever lay in,

ones now covered with ivory chip

and bone,

dyeing red

tumbling pillars

and crumbling stone

at crossroads,

at crossroads of the borders

between the world outside

and the world that we

had called our home.

And amongst all of this,

amongst the engine’s hum and wheels’ turn,

amongst the chaos,

amongst the mess,

 

amongst


 

all


 

of this,

Baba’s tears fell,

just like that,



 

colourless.

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