Friday, 15 July 2011


(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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