Dear Zubin, music and memory rhyme
to my ears as they do to yours.
A part of what music is,
apart from what music is,
memory belongs to the dead
as much as it belongs to the living.
To the clouds. And to the clay.
To the concert goers and to the purple grave-flowers.
Dear Zubin, the Zabarwan hills will remember you
just as they remember the faces on the posters.
Faces that were once our sons.
Our sons who once climbed the cliffs
and jumped into the afternoon water.
Here are the cliffs and the lake, but our sons are gone.
After the concert, you packed your passport and your baton
and your accent and left. The Zabarwan hills can't.
On the day of your concert, dear Zubin,
I was sick.
Honestly.................................................... |
