Lahore's Basant has the spring

colours of a blood-red orange.

Its sky is filled with souls floating

where red orange kites once flew.

The Lahore I knew is now history,

the dust of Loh mixed in Mughal stone,

Saffron Sikh painted PWD white.

This crowded city is now a country,

whose army wars within its walls,

whose brothers, cousins bear scars

from conflicts decided by dice thrown

by warriors, who wager other people's lives.

Anyone can cut my life's string,

any stranger decide when I am to die.

They celebrate their blood-red Basant

by flying my soul in a blood-stained sky.

24.2.17