I confess to South Sudan,
where I would meet Ibrahim
who would then tell me about the murals
that he has painted
and the journals he had collected,
all of them would be a testimony
to how children of war
were more of euphemisms of death,
that they had grief spread on bread for breakfast
and scoops of sympathy
in the name of humanity from
‘humans’ all around the world.

I confess to Afghanistan,
where I meet Noor,
she tastes despair in her mouth
every time she cries for her brother
who has gone to war against his will
and for her lover who was assassinated
In broad daylight,
death fills the air as the flowers bloom.

I confess to Kashmir;
Jhelum is tired of serving
as an ode to melancholy
and Dal Lake is haunted
by the echoes of the past.
Laila stands at the Wagah border
watching as her father fights
against her uncle- she questions
if love was meant to be terrorized
and if languages had a religion?

I confess to West Bengal,
as it parts with its sister,
Padma wears a crown of regrets,
as she watches families being
torn apart by the dagger of hatred,
aasha has forgotten what happiness tastes like.

I confess to Hindustan,
as she stands away
wiping the tears
that refuse to stop
falling from her eyes
as she watches the
fate of her children,
the sky weeps in blood red,
she wonders
what was the difference between
Lal Qila and Baadshahi mosque,
between Karol Bagh and Lahore’s markets,
between Durga and Khuda,
mosque and temple
and between Pakistan and India?