“Who lies beneath your spell tonight?”

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doubleOn the bus
to my house
somewhere in California
I dream of Kashmir
and the blue skies
that now seem faint
lacklustre
slopping over the mountains,
so unlike Kashmir.

On my phone
besides photographs
I have forwarded songs
that speak of meadows
and sheeps and mothers.
I tinge,
home returns as a song
faint and nondescript
mobile and farthest.

Geographies of longing
bound memories.
I fly between them
a song at a time,
a sky at a time,
somewhere in California.