The bed is too big.
Sleeping in separate corners,
between us,
we can carve entire nations square.
An urge to paint Kashmir, puts me to sleep.
I keep running out of colors.
In the end, I draw from memories.
Even that, I can’t anymore.
Receipt of inheritance is lost.
I have lost count of the windows the house had.
They won’t let me cross.
This river of history has washed away another
corner of my story.
Wet eyed, I remember no more:
Horseshoe of luck is missing at the front.
Black horses break down the door.
Neighing, I hear, their breath on my back, I can feel.
Movement of Knight is unfair.
Rook is half there, eyeing the Queen.
King is ready to pack his bags.
Summer moles dug out and shot.
Winter Pawns sent off to little boxes.
Bishops on the minarets,
cutting straight lines, singing a strange song.
Castle is buried under grey dust.
In the end,
Kings, Queens, Bishops and Knights
dine together at an uncheckered table.
Tomorrow’s headlines,
“A match well fought! A nail biting ending!
Tables ablaze!”
All fair.
Kyahrov, be declared the finest player.
Before I go to sleep, let me say this:
Ramzaan, your pockmarked face,
I remember.
It is true.
In the end, our Kashmir,
like a simple game of chess,
can be drawn in
black and white.
Would you care for another round of the game?
This time let me bring my bag of horseshoes.
