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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.
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