Shameela Yoosuf Ali
The pale yellow
Of the wheat field
Is stretched out beyond eyesight
Poppy blooms in enflamed crimson
Skirts along the curved footpath
The glistening sunbeams
soak my face with warmth
Like steamed sweetcorn
on a pouring rainy day.
The sun has an aroma
Like the smell of a garment
line dried in sweltering sunlight
Or the odour unfolding from the soil
When uprooting a shrub
I gaze at the sky craning my neck.
Kashmir carpet spread out as lengthy as life
Long way back home
A country of censored voices
I call it mine.
Besides,
The small house in the middle of the land
And spilt memories and a childhood…
…………….
There remains nothing.
And here,
Nothing feels connecting yet.
