Poetry by Malaika Rai

BHERA STOP 

My winters are steeped in grey, 
My streets are silent, with nothing to say. 
My arms, as they wander and restlessly twine, 
Wait constantly for yours to be tangled with mine.

Every branch in my neighbourhood asks of you.
You’re my Sun in the morning, my evening star. 
My blossoms, my roses, they thirst for your grace, 
Seeking the light of your Spring face.

Even in wings that are severed and shorn, 
The echo of your name is the cry that is born. 
This city I walk in, this life I call mine, 
Is nothing but a shroud wrapped around me, a funeral sign.

If you ever return, I would have you know: 
Our cities aren't distant, the maps do not show. 
The tragedy is, in the lives we have spun, 
People share the same house, but meet with no one.