Family Heirloom

Photo by Gowtham AGM on Unsplash

It gurgled and roared as the message spread

Like a rising fever, bodies unkempt

bare feet, uncombed hair, in a hurry it swooped

all — the brilliant, the dull, the rich and the poor.

The land of our buried ancestors lore

was scratched deep open flesh wounds in shiny floor

Oozing out the blood of conjured religious war

treasures were kept, still returning for more.

As the birds roamed free above them in the air,

neighbours forced to choose allegiance— here or there

Granny stories both sides were the same

They had buried lost golden memories in vain.

In a monsoon sky, a one land bled for two

A crying crowd, thundered two nations anew.

And so the neighbours were never the same

They understood the fence- no turning away

The wounds are still black and purple

Fresh bandaging at every new hurdle.

I would not return to the land my family once shared

yet I sometimes think if it were worth splitting away.

This is not the prose for the love of another

but of a inherited dark truth that stays undercover.

Like a family heirloom, it’s passed down to me

A fence, a fight and a fantasy.