tearing the solitary azure,
an old kite tries to conjure,
It’s missing ancestry.
A family that coloured
the clichéd blue skies,
taught to fall and then rise,
is now buried in history.
Beautiful chronicle it was,
when feet painted with red mud,
diverse children of equal blood,
raced to grab the falling stars.
Falling to the ground, it found,
no one to attach back the strings,
or to revamp its paper wings,
now, full of wrinkles and scars.