I remember when I used to make earthquakes, too.
Every step a stomp I would
Bite the rock into pieces I could chew
My emotion turns to a foliated list of reasons
You might want me dead by next Jummah afternoon.
Then we whirl into a cyclone of suspicion
You of me and me of you and both of us
In a turntable, dancing stoically to a rhythm of risk and rage
And anger and pain
Our traditional dresses falling off into
Dark walnut down the drain.
Our nations paint colors on our chests:
Yours a flag, mine a bloody stain.
And my nails dig deep into Japan today
But my fingers stay home, filled with 
Flames, with names
With gravel and spices
And I wonder if perhaps the grand directors
Have miscast my part;
If I play a ghost in myan gulli, is it
Inevitable
Or is it art?
Near the Line of Control,
The ceasefire holds
But little else does–
It was 12 o’clock at noon
And there was a good sun somewhere.