“These lemon blossoms, still smell of spells
How eight years spent, my cherished dreams
Your daddy ain’t, that ‘family man’, world tells
Mean mirror of you, that ‘merchant of screams’
How placid were you a professor, a tender Father, that Hisham!
Nor Baghdadi were you then, though, a mujahid, a tangled mystery
Why bore me you, to be, your lingering sublime psalm?
A splintered mirror Hagar, hangs, by the hinge of history!
Invisible Sheikh, Father too, unseen, unheard, unloved, unplayed
Alas! Squeals of my birth, squandered, on that man’s tomb
Who died a daddy an age back, to be born a bigot, with a prized head!
Can’t wish you life, nor end either, a bemused daughter’s love, her aplomb!
Whilst you at point of no return, I gaze, to despair and bleed
Won’t you turn back, to spare a tear, ain’t I your tear-worthy?
Why, I decreed, your lasting seed?
And you cast off a Father’s creed, my daddy Baghdadi!”
© 2016 Vikas Chandra