Could've Been Makrani, Could've Been Pamiri
Could've Been Balochi, Could've Been Pashtun,
He could've been Makrani,
a son of salt and drifting dunes,
or Pamiri, or Balochi, or Pashtun
carved by high mountains and the breath of snow.
Who knows?
Maybe he walked under the banners of old tribes,
maybe he crossed no banners at all.
Maybe he lived,
or maybe he is only a ripple,
statistical noise carried on the blood of a thousand nameless fathers.
In my veins, he is dust and song.
In my dreams, he stirs —
Makrani, Pamiri, Balochi, Pashtun, Nuristani, or nothing the world can pin down.
And still, I remember him.