Yesterday you read my poetry,
As though as I was writing to you.
I know because midnight tasted different.
Like you had taken the bitter words,
Leaving my English tongue,
And written them in all of the languages,
That I’ve not yet spoken,
Because you whisper them,
Into the darkness too.
Hoping for light, always,
You reached for my roots from where,
Grief had stolen a woman’s name,
And you called me hope.
That’s my unborn daughters name
And still it rhymes with yours,
Amal, Amal, Amal.
Because she will have a rebellious face,
Quiet determined nature,
Her heart tender- soft will be just,
You spoke to the valleys,
Encrypted in my spine,
As if we were the children of a great nation,
Readying itself to stand.
And our voices echoed one another, always.
So I promised I would sit on the banks of this river,
Until your eyes finally meet mine.
And out beyond those peaks,
That we fell so in love with,
I will write you, always.
I will write you,
In the colours of the night sky,
As it tumbles into the day.
The blues and the crimsons,
Clutching at all of the midnight that makes us.
Painting the strong veins in your wrists,
That lie south of my ink stained finger tips.
Placing our burning palms between them,
Because that is where you and I learnt,
To cradle this ancient struggle of our people.
I will write you until the Jhelum is clear,
No more blood will be carried upon her back,
Instead she will reflect the night sky,
Illuminated by the stars she carries.
We will wash the flags of freedom,
On her banks,
But I must not forget to ask,
Will you write me back, always?