Locked in Melancholy

I have skipped heartbeats,
to buck up life,
paving a path of hardships,
chopping the weeds of naivety.

Traces of my blood,
found in the pores,
of the mud,
in Lahore and Amritsar,
speaks of the bullet mark,
on my right knee.

1947-
A year when brotherhood
was massacred,
drawing a deep line,
of animosity.

A tattered photograph,
of my family
in sepia,
brings in a deluge,
of pacification
to my sobbing heart.

©songbriti