SIEGE

In the streets, filled
with impenetrable smoke,
Kashmir is burning again,
so are tyres, rubber,
and logs. The grief is
insurmountable. Houses
are burning. Fire
runs in waves. The air,
heavy with soot, murmurs
the foreboding of death 
overhead. The lost children of
the sad country sprint
in alleyways with
black balloons. The lost
children of the sad country
count shadows
on the sun. In the afternoon
they sleep to the
rain's lullaby. The food is scant.
There is no milk. The
grain of life shapes itself
into a stone we bring home, 
each day, for a familial ceremony. 
Evenings. 
We sit on the dinner tables
preparing for our little wars
we will fight in the morning.

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