They are all there
welcoming the sun
wading through the clouds,
each clinging to one of its rays
like gems sparkling against the blue
appearing like a colorful hijab
my mother wears to cover her head,
the strings for a day
taking control of the sky
collectively trying to pull down the heavens
to end the earth’s grief,
the chirping creatures sacrificed –
a part of the game.
The runners below casting a continuous spell
for the links to break,
then pacing with winds
riding their witch brooms
to secure the fallen jewels.
The dusk brings along
shooting stars across the horizon
streams of alcohol flowing
in an otherwise dry land
gulping sugars and snacks
folk dancing on the new track;
tired with the day’s fiesta
the vastness returns to her old black stoll
as my mother does at the end of the day.

© Nazneen Kachwala