Dera Ghazi Khan, 1925

They had coarse cotton on spindles

They had coarse hands on cows’ udders

Utter summer sun melting before the lentils boiled up.

They brought red dust of a dirt-tracked Multan

They could read only the forehead lines of their old

Older than border lines, not the footsteps both ways

They told stories of sad rivers that never were

They revved up stolen bikes when easy money jingled

Jimmying up the narrow lanes where kids and dogs ran

They have evening songs to old sleepy goddesses

They have dreams of where the dead speak aloud

They now laud bringing water and history in saved brass jars

From a Dera Ghazi Khan of lonely broken doors left ajar.

This work is supported by Sarai-CSDS, Delhi, under an Associate Fellowship; first published in Cha- An Asian Literary Journal, Hong Kong.