She is known to fly no flags.
Being a wandering refugee since weeks from her birth,
she has always walked lonely paths,
so she is unknown--
a strangeness that makes her reviled
by most until she befriends them.
Though she has learned that belonging
may be as transient as those who offer it.
But they offer it.
She searches among them for her heart's companions
and finds only its acquaintances;
tender acceptance meaning a life on the periphery,
a constricting welcome
making her wonder if she would rather be the boundless seeker
not confined to the multi-colour of nation states but
free under the noble black of the best of this Nation.
But under the black, they've raised flags
that she wanders to and from
lured by the rhetoric of belonging,
repulsed by theoretical solidarity--
the hegemony of majorities within
maybe a final hijra.
maybe a long walk through the lonely dunya
made lonelier by indifference.
Always she hopes to return to her father's origin,
to be pardoned and accepted
into a Garden whose expanse is the heavens and the earth.
Because though she is born a wanderer sometimes her feet become weary.
often her feet become weary.
always her feet are weary.
and she just wants to go