This poem is taken from Stand 230, 19(2) June - July 2021.
Martyr
They laid him out in his coffin like a puppet. Flowers strewn about his body concealed his features. His arms, crossed at the wrists, preoccupied me greatly.
When they brought my martyred brother home, I was just a little boy. I did not care about the religious rites or ceremonies then. There was something that wrenched inside my heart: when my mother forcefully pressed me to her bosom, I smelled the scent of fire coming out of him.
...
When they brought my martyred brother home, I was just a little boy. I did not care about the religious rites or ceremonies then. There was something that wrenched inside my heart: when my mother forcefully pressed me to her bosom, I smelled the scent of fire coming out of him.
...
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