My Chinar is insomniac
A bullet is rotting inside its veins
Its leaves have turned red
Roots black
It yawns day and night
Counts the stars
It knows the count now
A mine-blast near Moon
Has left the number small
My river is wailing
Bodies are decaying inside
its watery ribs.
It wails like Habba Khatoon
My mother is childless
Her womb is putrid
She keeps count
Of children
that chinar misses
And
Recites Habba Khatoon
In Raag-e-Yemen
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