This veil of silence is suffocating me. At 88 my shackled limbs are forced to speak. These flowery scarves are making them weep. This fragrance of Abu Jaan is sweet. They burn down Karachi and I need to say sorry? Muhammad taught me to be. My jamun’s bruised up in Kashmir. It’s my parchai and I want her to breathe. I collect Bulbul feathers to bury. There are knife holes in my sheets. Their knuckles bruise walls that are sunny. My parched lips sip on frozen dreams. I rode up to the sky to debate on taqdir. I am them and they are me. So Kun and there is God in me.