Old terrors

Where sea touch the shores
like a man in namaz,
where mountains kneel
to tell a bead of prayer,
where eagles circle
the saint shot by arrows,
I met her, my twin
as a pilgrim in my homeland.

Blue eyes, blonde hair and fair skin
but she had my eyes, my ears and my nose.
We stood in fear, dreading what we read.
She is me! I’m her!

“Like a doll! Ain’t she?”
My mom mumbled on my ears.
“Yeah… like a pretty doll.”
I said, my voice quivering.
Will you say the same,
when your mom asks;
“that brown girl, with black eyes and hair.
Ain’t she a pretty doll? Ain’t she?”

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