Ghazel of Shards

Dear ones, might a sign appear, if only a shard?
Even if sheered from nothing, a shard.

50 days slipped safely past
you who have disappeared—bequeath a shard.

Wherever you flew, wherever you fell
Dear lost ones, just a shard.

Your spectral lines, your memories, even your
fear clinging somewhere. However sharp, a shard.

Do you remember us?
We wait here. Even for a shard.

What Would We Have To Hide?

Malai is mountain. Melayu is where we make things

run. It is the current of our river. For 40,000 years,

 

we have been split by the South China Sea.

Our ground eroding, our bedrock dissolving

 

we have always made what we need.

We make cars. We build satellites.

 

Trust me, the planes we make do not go up

without coming back down.