By Mahrukh Murad
One day my little two-year old legs found out,
That the land beneath them had shifted.
There were green pastures instead of faded wasteland.
The metal of guns no longer visible,
The fear of death no longer physical.
My stubby feet were unsure,
Of whether to roam or stay still.
To claim the land or lay foreign still.
To cry the anthem or slay the hope still.
To be buried in the land or flee the land still.
About The Poet
Mahrukh Murad is a Pakistani writer. She aspires to harness the creative streak in human nature and embody it in her work. Her poetry has previously been published in TeenInk, The Waggle magazine, The Pangolin Review, Rigorous Magazine, Pleiades Magazine. Her Short Story is forthcoming in Windmill: The Hofstra Journal of Art and Literature. Her articles have been featured on The Nation and The Aman Project.
