I still remember
your footsteps beside me,
whispering on the asphalt,
in the rain,
in the hollow of dark nights,
beneath the weary glow
of city lamp poles,
upon the trembling wet pavement.

Now you have left
the rain,
the light,
and me.

Yet still I walk
through the same aching air,
the same silver rain,
the same empty streets.

Each drop that falls
is a soft echo
of your vanished footfall,
each puddle
a mirror to a memory
I cannot outrun.

O rain,
why can you wash the world clean,
but never wash
her footsteps
away from my life?

After seeing the ruthless killings
of black, tiny, weak kids on TV,
from starvation in Africa
on Christmas Eve,
I tiptoed back to my
white son's room,
made off with the gifts I had left,
burned them,
and killed the Santa Claus.

I know you are impartial,
You do not take sides
Not with the oppressed,
Not with the oppressors.

You are a good human,
You do not interfere in the acts of others,
Even if they are murders
In the brightness of the day.

You are a good human being,
You do not speak of wars,
Of blood, of wounds,
Of cries, of deaths.

You wish only to spread love,
To cover your eyes,
To shield your ears,
To silence your tongue
Against the roar of evil.

But tonight, before you sleep,
Close your doors,
Shut your windows tight,
And whisper only to yourself.

Ask your heart, the one you hide,
Ask as the human you had promised to be
Everything happening around you,
Before your open eyes

The screams that break into your house,
The cries that stain your walls,
The blood that runs through your streets

Is it good, or is it bad?

If it is good,
Then sleep peacefully,
And know you are right.

If it is bad,
Then know —
You have been wrong.

What does a kiss on a soft cheek cost?
A heart?
Laid in her palms
Is that the price?

Or a soul
Should it be
At her feet
Sacrificed?

Or maybe the time that is left
The last breath
The final sigh
In return
For a moment,
For lips to touch?

Tell me
What more should someone offer?
What more will she ask?

For the right
To rest
Two weary pilgrims
My longing lips
on the sacred land
of her cheek?

Daughters of neighbors
pierced the skin of the skies,
riding chariots of fire,
floating nine months
in the arms of weightless stars.
They whispered to the void,
grew life where even breath
has no permission to exist.

But here —
our daughters sit behind locked doors,
trapped in silence at the end of the street,
where schools are closed,
where a blackboard is a battlefield,
and a book
a forbidden fruit.

They planted seeds in space,
in the soil of galaxies,
while we—
we could not plant
a single seed of mercy
in the hearts of those who breathe
oxygen too richly to share.

O Sunita!
You carried the prayers of science
beyond the blue.
But our girls?
Their wings were broken
not by gravity
but by impatience, by fear,
by chains disguised as customs.

How long?
How long will the stars sing
while our daughters are silenced?
The earth has already taken flight,
and we—
we are still
binding the feet
of angels.

Let us give them wings too.
Let them fly—
not to escape,
but to arrive.
Let them touch the sky,
and return
with the soft, burning realization
of their own light.

Because the sky
is not for a few.
It was made
for every dream
that dares
to open its eyes.