I come back here like a wounded elephant
always comes back to that place where the battle was lost.
Where the beloved was struck. Where the little child
or mother or husband or sister or a friend lay, dying.
To this place, where the dust rises sometimes
and takes the shape of the one she lost.
But it is just dust now, a ghost, a mirage of what was.
The blood and flesh and the screams and howls whistle in the wind
But the pain shows in the tear stain on the traveller’s face
In the moment that even causes a laugh to escape in a pause
When the tear streams down to let the whiff know
Precisely how much the missing hurts.
Written by Tasnim Jivaji
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