Reform

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Maybe the wind was created so that I could caress
you gently. Washing pain with cotton wool
like how my Nana used to kiss away my bruises,
with promises of rainbows and sprinkles.

Now I come back to life, absorbing your bleak,
breathing Stardust into you again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

© Fiza Arshad, 2017 All rights reserved.

Rivers

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A stream near my backyard
with its twists and bends mended
the loose knots of the woolen sweater
my mum made every night

after her work caressing corn out on the cotton fields
from dawn till when the sun stops breathing.

Always moving – flowing.

 

 

 

 

 

© Fiza Arshad, 2017 All rights reserved.