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