I’ve torn the page
where
you came alive
after many deaths.

Now
i displace you
to pages
on a blinking screen
so many screens.
Where
you live
so many lives
once again.

You call yourself
uprooted
no mother
no father
land
to belong to.

There you reside
in so many hearts
in mine still.
But you insist
on that page
randomly picked
from a nearby bin
where I scribbled
with a careless hand
suffering
labour pains.

There you ask me
a hundred times
“how i came?
and from where?
who were my
grand
grandparents?”

and I
shut you up
with a thump
hitting you
with a push
of my keyboard
keys.

© Copyright, Tina Rathore.

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