Nausheen

Nausheen, the new snowfall,
born of the snow-dreams of exile -
of cosy huddles and cuddles
in kangri-warmed beddings;
of water-chestnuts baked on iron stoves;
of long-boots, pherons and pull-down caps;
of fish and beans and rice -
you come to us virginal white,
the first snowfall
in eight years of a parched life,
landing so soft so quiet
on our withered memories in exile.

Nausheen, the angel from the skies,
you bring the fragrance
of a forgotten winter’s delight,
after an eight-year-long sultry night -
a morning of divine sight,
supernal, serene, white,
soft, smiling and bright.

Nausheen, the first snowfall
after eight snowless Shivratris,
you arrive to replenish
the denuded peaks of soul
and to water
the parched marrow of spirit.
Nausheen,
the offspring of exiled dreams,
born to the children of snow
in the snowless deserts of exile
you come to us -
the promise,
the resurrection and the life,
the continuum,
and the generational thrust
in our march
back to the snowy roots.

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