Birth and Death,
Two dualities,
the Sun and the Moon
Partners in crime, without one there is no other,
Without the latter their is no realisation of the importance of the first,
Do the people living forget about the dead?
Or do they just get consumed in this thing called life,
The Arab nations taught the world about rememberance,
Never forgetting that this life is temporary,
Zhikr a language for the tongue to sing from,
A holy form of poetry wrapped in love,
The colonisors thought splitting India would bring about power,
Yet it is only weak in its differences,
Before we were one nation, never divided by faith and caste,
or maybe that’s what they wanted, division,
The colonisors caused such damage that reparations could never heal
I wonder if my father would ever forget my birthday?
Would he be heavy weighted in pain?
or would he too move on absorbed in this reality?
The evening of the 2nd of January hit like a sore thumb,
and I grieved of the loss of age you never gained,
50, a number so mighty, moulded and aged,
you never saw my 14th birthday,
16th past, then 18,21,
birthdays, boyfriends, graduations, deaths,
now I sit here observing your 50th,
watching the moon, fasting,
10 years have passed, never would I have thought that this would be the outcome,
I become crippled as I celebrate the birth of a lover,
while your 50th crept upon me,
Today I am the furthest I have been from your grave,
a whole ocean away, underground,
furthest in faith, compartmental torture,
I still close my eyes hoping I will see you once more,
my own father with all his grace,
I role onto my side as I try finding comfort in my own spine,
as I grieve your death alongside the death of a Poet,
I wonder how lucky I am to be given the name Malanghi,
How he must have also loved me,
A man with two faces,
Funny how things come full circle,
A birthday, a death, and a lover.