I am posting a lovely poem by Foqia composed after the horrible tragedy in Rawalpindi.
I queuing at the Bank,
for my monthly salary.
Image of crimson gharara, its goata lace,
dancing before my eyes.
My four year old Sara in my arms,
I saw it in the market a week ago.
Am waiting for new bank notes,
their smell of freshness, welcome to this clerk’s nose.
The sound of them being counted a break from my mundane life of office sounds,
The thought of buying groceries for Eid,
And then a thundering jolt broke me into pieces,
My body scattered hundred yards,
What will it wear now but a shroud,
The Crimson ‘gharara’ hangs for another buyer in a small shop in downtown Saddar.
3rd November, 2009
Edit: Isa Daudpota
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