Kash Baloch — Poetry, Prose & Survival

I stood there helplessly, drowning in defeat, darkened by my inability to breathe life into your rusted heart's resilient beat— a symphony I memorized from the inside, in forty weeks. Incapable of returning you to the raven haired beauty of your prime, I bite my tongue until I'm numb, as if my lips have been sewn shut with twine. You heal me when you hold me then transport me back in time, to the days of yesteryear, when I was still your innocent, little child. I am haunted b y  the trauma when I will one day find, that I can no longer turn to you for comfort, or the reassurance of your smile. I know I run but I am f rightened,  when I see you've become so frail.My mind refuses a reality where you are no longer my nightingale. Your song lulled me into slumber, as you softly sang the world to sleep. If only I had looked at you long enough to see, that all you were ever doing was trying to love me. There is no bond like that between a mother an...

Your strained voice cries out to me, like the sage sitar. It sings a sobering song that transports me through sand. Suddenly, a memory of your loving care becomes so real. I watch, awestruck, as you took my tears then weaved them into cloth. Embroidered with golden silks you pulled from the fabric of your heart. We never had much, but your patience had me convinced you were the palace in which we lived. I exhale—only the warmth of love and adoration escapes from my lungs; in you, we have the stars. Despite the struggle, we only ever tasted the sweet saffron you skillfully slipped into our souls. Shalimar is in you; my mother IS a Taj Mahal. Her every breath's a nectar; it is cardamom's caress. I would reanimate a hundred thousand times just to relive the splendour of her shadow; i t was the sunrise of my lifetime. I would relive every sadness behind my eyes just to breathe the soothing citrus-scented air of her orange grove. I ha...