my ancestors they feared the world that birthed them – but I set it on fire. now I watch from the skies, as my children burn. now these are the things without all remedy, when they were once without regard. when my daughter stands on the beach, the earth blazes her sole. when she jumps in the ocean, she acerbs her skin. the village where my father deified the soil with his tiny hands, is drowning, imploding unto itself, and with it the first tree he planted. I have heard the joke about the end of the world, it’s the same one about love and life – we think we have time. Srishti Jain is an Indian poet and physiologist based in Sydney. Her work reflects a personal representation of diaspora identity, vulnerabilities as a person of colour, as well as love and belonging in a fast, unforgiving world. Her work has been published in various literary journals such as Red Ogre Review, Rigorous, The Cancer Researcher, Meniscus, Clepsydra- Literary and Art Magazine. Her poetry on climate justice can be found in the streets of Dublin as part of The Bohemian Way campaign. Comments are closed.
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