(fourth moment)
He was powering down the green banks
The Strid mashing itself white on his right
My backpack in one arm
Then he stopped to look back
As I scrambled down, creaking,
Relieved that the walk would now be flat
He looked up the hills,
Children of the crags he had climbed in Quetta
Something in my hurt little city lungs
And my plump rib cage had no master
So I found a rock and slumped on to it
He watched then said “Good boy. Let’s go”
By Ali. A. Naqvi
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