Fronds cover me.
My broken shards
Long for bracken,
Growing wildly in glee!
All broken things are mended
By the living’s embrace,
So are the dead, when interred
They are in symphony.
Earth’s diurnal rhythm rocks them,
Lulling them into a dreamless sleep
Cradled by earth’s plenty, they rest with
Ferns, maggots and wilderness, in eternity.
The rest, then we know, is whispered by history.
Mumtaz N Khorakiwala
A pic of my daughter’s embroidery.