letters begin with a greeting, don't they?
how many worlds can I gather in my arms - one
for each tongue that builds it - and shower them
across parts of the motherland.
how many lives,
just how many lives won
and lost,
does it take it build bridges
to cross over from the experience of one tongue to another?
my eyes hover over words
that sound more like themselves
in another part of this nation,
and my eyes know not to hurry.
my hands try to feel the authenticity of a maatra,
lying just below the surface of italicised english,
half-sure of finding the sound of the earth
pulsing through the page.

there are so many worlds
that I am yet to gather in my arms
- how can I look beyond the horizon
if its shadow lines lie just beyond my vision?