Emerald Home, Fractured Voices

Dr Ranbir Laishram
Many voices—
soft, angry, silent, many—
call this small sky home.

Hills remember,
rivers remember,
feet that came long before fences.

Names change,
borders shift,
but soil still knows our touch.

Some say immigrant;
Some say ancestor.
You say owner;
I say keeper.

Some count crores,
some count coins,
some count missing fingers at night.

A self-made king
on a narrow street,
a self-made border
across a field.

Each tribe waits—
half in prayer, half in rage,
all afraid to blink first.

Does anyone ask
alone, in quiet,
what are we doing to ourselves?

This emerald land
caught in quarrels,
breathes dust,
dreams of rain.

If we tear each other,
who will stitch the valley?
If we burn bridges,
who will cross the river?

Let us sit down
before the fire.
Speak slowly,name wounds,
then hopes.

Homeland is not mine,
not yours,but ours in trust—
a bright, brief loan.

If we hold it gently,
guard each other,
maybe our children
inherit more than scars.