mountains peak where i meet you every morning.
cracks of light pour in to heal the cold in our hearts.
breathe in salvation and breathe out the burdens. i’m
glad you live on the other side sometimes. if you saw
what we look like now, you wouldn’t recognize what
you left behind.

reminders. the sheer vastness. the defining silence.
the untouched land remind us that this is a dream
within a dream. nothing more than a fiction to awake
from. that our restlessness, it tells us something.
that we belong to something bigger. that we belong to
someone greater.

that when we lie awake at 4 am, even 4 am is a lie.
and up there, where darkness begins. is the only truth.

if we could only remember.





my home is ablaze
with your
ruthless storms
the land remembers
the mountains still echo
our screams

your flag will not survive here.

– m.h.                                                                                                                                               more poetry


i asked my mother,
what is our story

i only ever had pieces
of identity to salvage
sentence fragments-
of too many words to fit on one page
of detachment
and diaspora
displacement due to disruption
disruption due to displacement
of first generation
and second generation
of immigrant
parched lips begging for belonging
for a home to come home to-

dukhtaram, she said.

it is mine to tell you
it is yours to complete.

– m.h.                                                                                                                                               more poetry

still, we are free.

i am a threat
to my own oppression
to the exile your privilege puts me in
because my ancestors built resilience into my blood
while yours
just had blood
on their hands
i am not an exception to the rule
i am a mere reflection
of my upbringing
brought up on the bare backs of refugees
who made sure nothing would stop me from having everything
owed to us
every last one of us
boundless and borderless, we are coming
a long time coming, but i promise you
we are coming.

we are turning tables
into red woven carpets with spilt tea leaves
into red and green kites
flying freely
below drones in the sky
but they still fly
because the wind is on our side
because we chose our freedom one day
we decided it was ours
it’s our deepest, darkest secret
much too quiet for tapped phone calls
and when our troubles let us
we drift asleep to bomb blasts,
soft death and lullabies- but still, we are free
we bury our children in foreign lands, with foreign dreams
but still, we are free
and we grieve when we have to
when their tears dry to ashes
but still, we are free.

– m.h.                                                                                                                                               more poetry


the most
important feature
of a man
is how he would
your daughter

– m.h.                                                                                                                                              more poetry