By Saba Zahoor
It rained in Kashmir again
and I dreamed once more
of turning into its soil,
waiting to receive the diaphanous, fertile rains–
ripe with the smell of bulbous fruit pulp
that coax the rivers awake.
I would weave myself
roots and rain’s silver threads
into lush green carpets.
How I long to be the earth sodden with rain–
to hold close every drop of goodness offered.
I have moved far from home
dwelling in fossil aquifers.
Here, rain falls obliquely, fitfully—
flash floods, ephemeral streams
drowning the sinful dust devils.
Each sudden downpour weighs
heavy on the soul like a debt.
And every attempt to repay
falls short of the favor.
The realization is a callous bone
wedged between my teeth:
For all my intentions to receive
like my home soil–
I am the baked sand that cannot hold–
yet there are rocks through which springs gush forth.
*The final line is adapted from Qur’an 2:74.
Saba Zahoor is an engineer, born in Kashmir and currently living in Saudi Arabia. She is a self-styled peasant poet who views poetry as a portal to alternate realities.