From another curfew

By the last bridge, Jhelum brims back
and carries a burden:
a soul, a son,
the city of siege, Srinagar
beyond a deluge – a blood-stained vista

A slaughter sponsored, a seething spark
life lasting scar sore the cacophony
of the woods,
the dark beauty, born

An epitaph like the first spring
by the Chinar tree in the graveyard,
read like Shahid’s poetry


“We sacrificed our present for your future …”
and wonder: Was the unconsoling mother still murmuring that unkept secret?
“My son,” she says “didn’t go to school.”

Was she offered the gratia, for blood
for her soul, longing and the separation,

I hear that ‘silence has started to scream’

From a whisper, we fell
like fall’s golden leaves
after winter, a spring soon.

The gurgles testimony, to that deluge
shall soon be relieved,
like the pellets, lasting light.

Three sticks holding green on Asif’s grave.

The news read:
“he was the part of the ongoing violent protest…
fired on the procession”

Stories, still the same
one more grave serene,
a silhouette, a scream
a deafening silence
under the village azure.

Published here,

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