This poem was first published on "Asian American Writers' Workshop".

in the district, near
what they insist is a border
the dust is still uneasy
on the graves, now only numbered
dead-men’s shirts
hang from the nearby trees
untired flags touched by
kids too young to know poetry
the gash across the verdant body
now even deeper, the glass map
of our country, broken still
i swear Shahid, i picked up where you left
in this long war of learning
our Kashmir only bleeds

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