Burnt Wings

By Ridhima Munjal

1. The sky is a burning crimson, drenched with the blood of our ancestors. Scarlet rays of light shroud our land, hiding lost dreams of the years gone by. The soil of Punjab is engraved with valiant footsteps, but I am afraid that my feet are not good enough for these steps. Vermillion flowers sprout from this earth, stained with memory. The trees are dripping with copper and silver dreams of the souls that perished into it. I am sure the roots still connect to you in another world. Can I inherit the dreams of the fallen, and carve them into my life?

2. The winds of our motherland carries prayers on its back, like letters from one world to the next. But, in any world, God does not answer back. There is never enough land to bury so many souls. If you delve this earth, there are thousands of hearts buried deep underneath, heavy with the weight of stifled wishes and rusted hope. Our forefathers could not carry their burden into another lifetime.

3. I have weaved a tapestry of silence with my ancestors. It gleams in the changing light, from amber to mahogany. Each thread a story of the dream they burnt, so ours could build a home. In the end they tell me- Don’t be afraid of death, look it in the eyes, and smile upon the thought- You will be finally going home.

By Ridhima Munjal