A hundred years and more ago we fled
Exchanging the sweet air of the mountains
For the dust of the plains, looking ahead,
Straight ahead, that we might walk in clean rains
Unmixed with the red

Of a land beset by the crimson curse
And the rich beauty of wild snow-tipped hills
That comes from spilt blood, not water; and worse
The slow snake-coil crushing of fighting wills
That makes life a hearse.

Drip drip drip the crimson floods find the hole
In the soil and stain it, clump the limp clay
Into ramparts powerless as a roll
Of thunder to still rain. Born to shield, they
Keep alive its soul.

Then the ramparts crumble beneath boot heels,
Before truncheons and pellets; but they learn
Fresh valour from fresh blood, until it feels
Their endurance must soon soul-freedom earn
For the vale that reels;

Our kinsmen who stayed kept up the old spell
Of grandeur with blood and ash, bone and flag,
Amid batons keeping time with each yell
On blood-piggy-banks uniforms drag
And break with crowbars.

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Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, a teacher of French as a foreign language and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Black Bough, Protean, Ideate, Songs of Eretz, The Dawntreader and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.

Photo: rizal makbul