Lion
My Daddy is a proper Sikh, his turban is
so elegant, his beard is always neatly tied
I really think he’s dashing
he wears his suits with such aplomb, I
think he is more handsome than
any other daddy
I love it when he’s chanting prayers,
so rhythmic and mysterious
he loves us more than life itself
sometimes though, I am perplexed, his mood
swings right from day to night, sweeps away
our peacefulness, in just a millisecond
I sense an ancient hurt inside, which
I’m too young to realise, is grief and
rage for all that he has suffered
he never speaks about his trials
though, one day I will understand the
wounds done to his soul and land
he had to leave his childhood home
his early life and all he’d known,
to flee from those he’d long
considered brothers
for men in charge of India’s Fate
made choices which turned love to hate
untold millions fled their homes
rivers flowed with blood and bones
roads were paved with bodies,
daily, horror- trains arrived,
no-one on them left alive,
whilst wells turned into coffins
though Dad survived and life
is good it’s not that long since
India keened her dying song,
divided, wounded, never healed
as Daddy never will be