AFTER a GENOCIDE in DELHI - a poem by Jaspreet Singh Kirpal Singh’s hair, Nirmal Singh’s hair. Don’t mix the locks, she says. One of them was my husband, and the other my brother. But you can mix and unmix my sons’ hair. Satwant’s naturally curly strands. My Jaswant’s so black and long, it touched his knees, and my ladla Joginder, his face would glow like orange fire when my fingers braided the gift he got from God. College-students, all three, nearly six-feet tall and only a year apart from each other 19, 18, and 17. Daughter Jaskiran, smiley face our family beauty She made one last acute attempt to scream. Poor girl she was shivering November, you know baytah, is bitterly cold I gave her a phirozi shawl but it became lal hi lal. When I woke up… My eyes could not understand Why I refused to see What they had seen Tell me sinister Prime Minister how long does it take for rubber to burn fully? Does it burn slower than a human body?
Posted on: Tue, 01 Apr 2014 02:29:39 +0000