The partition
Here in this landscape of bushes and crippled trees
the grotesque peace of daylight ghosts
Grey boughs stretching upward appeal to
a soundless god.
“Give us today a new life.” There is only one deity
The almighty one, who goes by the name Silvanus.
Those who do not understand this are doomed to
a life of empty pursuit of pleasures.
In nightclubs and casinos, people are trying
not to be alone in the night and face the truth
In a black frame, seeing you seeing through you
and into an ever-expanding void.
In the summer heat of '47's cry,
A line was drawn beneath the sky.
Not ink, but blood, not words, but flame—
Two nations born, but none the same.
Fields once golden, shared with grace,
Now whispered names in a stranger’s place.
Neighbors turned to fleeing feet,
Homes abandoned, hearts incomplete.
The Ganga wept, the Indus roared,
As trains of silence onward soared.
One carried dreams, the other pain,
Each bound by history's heavy chain.
Mothers clutched their children tight,
As dusk replaced the promise of light.
The earth was split, but souls entwined,
By love, by loss, by ties maligned.
Yet even as the borders grew,
In every heart, an ember flew—
Of songs once sung in shared embrace,
Of temples, mosques, a common space.
Now time walks slow through wounds unhealed,
Through stories still too deep to yield.
But in the hush of evening's breath,
Hope blooms quietly out of death.
May memory teach what lines erase,
That peace begins with face to face.
Not walls, but bridges must we chart—
For no one owns a human heart.
Millions of Indian Muslim marched toward Pakistan,
And numerous Hindus, from Pakistan, reached Hindustan.
The lands they hated most had to become now their homelands,
With their bitter most enemies, they were forced to shake hands.
A little taunting from one was enough for the other,
To hit or kick or beat or bite or callously murder.
Many thousands were mercilessly killed in both the sides,
Atrocities on women tolled as though sea in high tides.
No inner healing could ever, in any way, take place,
Feelings of unhealed wounds ran within as though in full race;
In venom-filled words and actions their revenge fond vent,
Behind each other’s smiles, even today, vengeance seen blend.
06 March 2022
solitude reading night
lonesomeness appraising stars
partition of worship
ants marching slowly
evening sitting on orchids
cruel partition
a silken wall
beyond earthly realms
separates us all
from the great mystery
no mortal can see
lest He should call
Written 9/24/13 by Andrea Dietrich
for nette onclaud's POEM OF COMPRESSION Poetry Contes
The dawn makes fools of us all.
It fills us half full like open barrel drums
left out in the rain. There's no excuse,
except to say: we stand
among crystalline mist, the yawning light
teasing us to immortality. We prune angels
with gravel and future memories in our pockets,
like poltergeist stars. Midday reaks of sweat to us.
Dinner--an inextricable film of causality.
At night our dreams exist as double entendres.
Only in the stretching illumination, the ensemble
of spectral waves and negation, are we
forever beings of suspension, beings of bent light,
constantly unable to know inelasticity, and here is where we live.
Oh, please just don’t fight!
I know you don’t love each other;
It’s me, who to decide
With whom I’ll be with; or
Where to go for seven days;
Three days for you, daddy!
Three days for you, mommy!
Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays or TThS;
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays or MWF;
Which one of this two you prefer, you decide?
I have a God and Sunday is for him;
Thou, it’s just one day, yet
I feel much of his love.
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