Rubyred.

She bounces between the shadows of strangers, playing a solitary game of Hopscotch that seems to never end. The looming skyscrapers provide her with the utmost comfort, a retminder that she is a single loose thread hidden by fancy needlework in the overall fabric of this metropolis. 

Despite longing to remain as anoymous as the Jane and John Does in hospital morgues, the rubies in her hairband glisten in the sun, letting her presence be known against her wishes. 

Once she is ready, she will vanish without a trace, disappearing into the concrete sidewalks like the rain. But until then, she permits the sun to paint her shadow ruby red. 

One day she will fade away, becoming one with the blaring horns from taxicabs, and excited voices of children rushing home from school. That is when she will finally be happy—more elated than the current fleeting moments of contentment that make her wince from the transient way they ebb and flow, and tease. Until then, she remains vigilant, careful not to attract anymore attention than she needs. 

Soon, she will be free from this rat race she never chose, her final act complete once she solely exists in secret. Her purpose will only be fulfilled once all that's left of her is a ruby red glow that bounces between the buildings. 

Indus.

Since colonialism corrupted her innocence,
dyeing Mother India's land with the blood of innocents.
Once, harmony existed between their inhabitants,
until extremism reared its ugliness and sought to create division.
From the beginning of time, India was one,
home to many different tribes that coexisted
peacefully under the Hindustani sun.
From the shores of the Indian ocean,
to the Himalayas and Bangladesh in the east,
there was no bond quite like theirs
until pride and ego made it cease.
I still consider myself to be Indian
despite having Pakistani roots,
one day, hoping to to adventure throughout India,
whilst feasting on her fruits.
Long live Mother India, the birthplace of all religion,
though I remain in mourning
for the casualties lost to predatory partition.

La Isla Bonita

She has hips like Venus,
that ebb and flow,
with the rhythm of the sea;
her waves wash over me.

I seek tranquility in her ocean.
Swimming in her to
define my freedom.
A body of water like no ofher.
She smells of saline
and hard labour.

Every breath's an effort,
just like the very air I breathe.
Sweet as honey,
she is thick as milk.

Despite being blamed
for Eve's original sin,
she still weaves through
the traffic with expert skill.

Blessed with the ability
to turn water into wine,
and chromosomes into people,
she embraces every obstacle
with passion and wonder.

As soft as velvet,
and as smooth as jade,
she is the reason why
brutish men are
transformed into knaves.

Le donne, mujeres, aurat—
in any language she is beautiful.
And for her very existence,
I am eternally grateful.

She.

She walks with her head held higher
than the skyscrapers that kiss the sky.
Finally able to live her truth,
her hazel eyes have no more glitter tears to cry.

Sometimes strangers can be crude,
but often they just seem surprised.
Her name and identity give her strength,
and fill her with such pride.