I was but a hollow chuckle of history,
Who often stopped and wondered
If they knew
What they were doing,
When they did,
What they did;
If only I could,
Name a name,
To blame my unending longing
For a forgotten lane;
I imagine all the children of partition carrying this barbed wire
You can see if you turn their hearts inside out,
It was in my grandfather’s will,
I recall;
And now I am an aftermath.
A hollow chuckle of history.
Nibbling at memories only to swallow them with a sigh,
Walking around with dropped shoulders
And drooping eyes,
So that they don’t see the partition in my eyes.
.
.
.
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