With pangs of pain and smiles

I remember

The city of Dar es salaam.

Whose breezes, sounds, smells, and wounds

Surround my being

Like the breath of those evenings in Awadh.

But Dear Dar es Salaam

When your memory hits my heart

Why do I feel this excruciating pain?

Is it because my blood and color seem

Closer to those who have sucked your blood?

Bloodsuckers whose conscience lies

Splintered and scattered across the globe?

Or perhaps to those

Who could not be yours despite their intense desire

Because they never got an opportunity

To show you their love, or

To write their destinies

In their own words.