Home

Stateless,
We personify the motherland,
She transcends all barriers,
So millions of miles from the Land,
Our roots are still entwined,
Because home is not merely,
Where we came from,
Home is where we are headed.

Between collisions,
Of broken mother tongues,
In the presence of loved ones,
Sharing their first,
Trans-cultural experiences,
We learn,
Home is rich.
Not just soil,
Stained in the richest of Crimson,
But soul stained,
In the deepest of love.

Between nostalgic sighs,
Escaping lungs,
That still mourn your death,
Smiles fall between loved ones,
Intersecting in places,
Where there are no LoC’s,
We call this terrain -heart,
Souls were always destined,
To collide – here.

We are the motherland,
The mountains..
Valleys,
Are the spaces between us,
Our hearts meet,
In the place where,
The Neelum,
And,
The Jhelum collide,
Those rivers ,
Like these bonds,
Equal sustenance, still.

And there is no first rainfall here,
But we await news of your first snow,
As the Chinar sheds her leaves,
Over English streets.

They tell me,
The intrinsic nature of this poetry,
Is not English,
Kashmir is apparent upon page,
Because these words,
Carry land,
Words, carry heartbeats,
Because you,
Are more,
Than soil,
So how can we be,
In exile?

Our existence,
Makes Home apparent,
To all those who still cannot,
Run fingers over maps,
To caress the country,
Where our parents were born.

We are not orphaned,
Or stateless,
Our home is far greater,
Than an occupied land,
So why,
Do we still define it,
With an Oppressor’s tongue?

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