Poem: Abbottabad
Was this the town I called ‘Home’
For so many years, after
My father’s death?
His home was here.
The house still stands
And the maggots that infest it.
Writhing, slithery creatures,
Black to the sight,
Drooling over the rocks,
Like prunes gone bad.
The rest is all changed.
The town itself, I mean—
The distant valleys strewn with pines,
The old poplars along the roads,
The mown grass fragrant in the breeze,
Slow-moving clouds etched against the hills
--All gone.
It is sad this slum,
With its shops,
Bus stops,
Garages
And more shops,
Fat women and scummy men
That’s all that’s to it,
and memories
of another Abbottabad.
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