Aadil Hingorjo
Sanghar, Sindh, Pakistan
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Resonating Through Roots

In a dizzy, dark room
Next to the dusty desk
Was she a desert or in a desert?
Sighs of that sea surrounded her
Solitudinous sacredness sat before her
Interviewed by mystery, she silently forwarded
Daughter of the Indus danced right there
The coast embraced in history
In Kutch or Thar
River and the rhythm went alongside
Koteshwar caught her glimpse
Millions of magazines began breathing
Why magazines, why not the folk tales?
Stains of postmodern pranks
Remember.
Gods lied crossed in graves.
Echoes were unheard.
Stones inscribed the ancientness
Great many groups.
Stubborn armies of Muslims.
Toothless traditions
Enshrined in ashes.
Trembling temples.
All hows were helpless;
Whys voiceless
So was the infinity of art;
Winds coming through wounds
Forgetful fog
Unforgettable autumn.
They call it a bygone beat
The world vanishes off.
Slowly.
Of course.
The sun dies away.
The dawn disappears.
The self-born symphony
It all meets its intensity
Gotta go now, she whispered.
Gulping down all dots,
Light-headed lord drinks another peg!
-
Aadil Hingorjo
Resonating Through Roots
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