Shaheeda

Time blended into some genetic material;
it wrestled, weighed down a million odds
and became her existence.
After eight months and twenty days,
she pushed her way out into the blinding lights.
She cried the roof down
as her trembling lips
reached for the sweaty teat.
 
Seasons passed.
When the chilly winds blew from the mountains,
her heart was warmed by love’s beckoning. 
Her deepest desires
unfolded from her juyub.
Her kohl-lined eyes
searched for him in the misty valleys,
in the poetic sounds of Urdu,
and in the bustling streets of the old town.
Every fiber of her existence
pined for the warmth of his body. 
She recited to herself every day,
with the certainty of the holy verses,
that she is his woman until her last breath.
She knew
from the deepest layers of her reckless spirit,
her man was a gift from providence.
 
On a rainy afternoon,
he was machine-gunned in the marketplace,
and was left to die in the muddy gutters.
She squeezed his bloody body
into the searing agony of her bosom
and cried the roof down.
She wailed like a possessed witch.
Every fiber of her existence
screamed into the farthest reaches of the universe.
After months of seemingly unending grief and self-abuse,
something in her changed.
She heard her heart pound like an empty vessel;
the hollowness numbed her mind
and muted her voice.
In the days that followed,
she was led down the rabbit hole
by overzealous, hypnotic voices
to join the cause
and fight for the freedom of their land.
 
Like a fly surrendering to the flame,
she mindlessly followed every step of the journey.
The manic rantings
had no effect on her.
It was his ghost in every corner of the labyrinth;
It was his ghost at the end of the tunnel;
It was his ghost in all the dimensions.
Her dark, naked eyes
echoed with a piercing resolve.
Every fiber of her existence
screamed for revenge.
When she took his name under her last breath
and pushed the button,
time released its grip on her 
and evaporated with the flying shrapnel.