Longing, for Identification

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I come from

a watered down taste of my father’s landowner hands

dirt and diligence

mixed with mother’s jasmine neck and silky black hair

a dash of fierce eyes flaming in freedom

a touch of red, in scarves and beads and bangles

a hint of Urdu calligraphy in my thought

and western nuance in my speech

I wear the faint smell of henna only occasionally

the fragrance of tears and weariness on me constantly

I taste of dusty pages and reek of musty shawls

I am a pinch of mystery and

a handful of undefined cluttered chaos,

beautiful chaos

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