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Broken Toys


I saw a picture in the papers today
of that large room with a mirror
strewn about with broken toys
A splintered bed and burned carpets:
It had been defiled by wild mobs
That we had also seen in other times.

Seven years ago today
The ancient poets stood by us
In shamianaed winters chill
quaffing the forbidden amber
That kept our desert town afloat.
They had sung of love and friendships
across the cruel frontiers of hate.

You had watched then distantly
somewhat bemused
and I watching you, and them
knew that poetry had begun.

The cadaverous Rais Amrohi
Bard of the Muhajirs
Since murdered alas
By those who trampled over our room
And that Prince among men
Mohinder Singh Bedi,
would both have wept
had they been alive,
as we do now,
to see that shattered mirror
Those broken toys
lying strewn in a room
that witnessed many joys,
where Begum Akhtar’s haunting wails
sheltered mysterious tales
that we had heard and passed on.

In that fractured room
where so many dreams were spun
where poems were sung
and laughter heard
where tears were shed.

Those broken toys
That splintered bed
that mirror on the wall
The gloom, the deathly pall
they tell it all.