Crematorium

By Neesha Rumi

If I live to tell this tale

Will you tell it with me –

Being a bridge over

Every shake and break

Of my voice?

The smoke in our lungs

Is coated with blood –

Your hair caught

In my throat and I

Coughed up my neighbours –

The glassy-eyed little boy

With a golden mane

Left before he saw

All this – the hollowed

Eyes appear over masks –

Is it too late? –

The answer seems to be

Yes – every time – my heart

Is aching for my friends –

Contorted faces meeting

Me in the hallway –

I have nothing –

Nothing – to do –

Nothing to give them –

I try to say – I love you –

But they just turn into

Whisps of smoke

And fade away into

The burning sunset

Of the crematorium –

That is – this land –

By Neesha Rumi