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Here’s a poem about love and identity, by Poornima, in Different Truths.
Our dear unborn
I wish we could breathe a breath somewhere
To string together the violet stems of an early winter evening
Set the sun on fire and hope that the inferno will open your eyes
Fill it with dawns so orange
That you will see nothing but thoughts
That are as golden the scintillating horizons
That can blur the hate this world
So easily owns in its womb
Our dear unborn
I wish I could call you mine
In this place where names matter and surnames give you the identity you deserve
That your skill to draw that charcoal sketch so precisely will not make a difference
As much as the caste or the creed that you are labelled with
But hell-born as you are
We, your father and I, made every bit of you
A story, word after word
A poem so full of love
That it sticks a dagger in the heart of oppression
And stands alone like an unsung folk song
But still known
Our dear unborn
You are neither the stain nor the crack on our walls
You are neither the policy nor the clause of the law of this soil
You are a bit of him
A bit more of me
A right pinch of us
Just enough to believe in the magic of love
©Poornima Laxmeshwar
Photos from the internet
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