If I do not return, tell your heart
not to lament, come and find me instead
for I will be lying dead in the street
(where I had given you a rose-perfumed envelope
one brumal evening) and hold my head
in your arms to dislodge the bullet in my skull
like a sharp stone in the stem of our walnut tree;
and drop it into the modest waters of Jhelum
the day our country has its flag raised,
garmented on the foreheads of half-brides.
Memories do still bind us to one another
amid the ugly sounds of war, and
the songs and hymns of murdered grooms,
but I fear the barbwires between our love, will
tear apart my address from your letter
before headlines read the end of the war, and
your poem will drip in the metaphors of pain.
Fashion it into a kite then, sweetheart, fly
it high above my grave where I shall be nestled,
behind the snow-capped mountains, awaiting
your return, one last time. And my dear,
what better slap can be on the executioner
but our holy reunion, beneath God's throne?