Tasenda

In the indigo halls of Imagined Gods of Love, Lovers leave half burnt letters of incense and trails of broken hearts - Among ruins of shattered Love knots, she sits alone Weaving a rosary out of Thin air With longing as its thread and Beads made out of tears -- In the Indigo halls of Imagined gods of Love, The walls conspire and whisper Into her ears Telling tales of unfaithful loves And unrequited desires -- The rags of threads once Tied at the Astans of Hamdan, Lie at her feet, as she sits alone Knitting desolation from the whispers To sacrifice at the altars of the imagined Gods of love 

She walks up to me Her face lit by the pale moonlight Of the silver sliver of the moon I look into her eyes The sad eyes of a girl Who was a woman before Her time Her each breath, magic Her each touch, ecstasy Her feet carry her lightly barely touching the ground she stands alone  in the desolation  a princess surrounded by  the night

His bag was light One small dirty brown envelope But his shoulders weighed heavily As he walked through The desolate streets Littered with army men And  stray dogs -- His gait heavy, the men Stopped him and searched Looking for stones in his pockets For the weight made Him walk slowly But all he carried was One small dirty brown envelope -- The muddy slushy road That led to a desolate house Surrounded by wails and Other small houses The trek became more treachrous With each step, the bag with the One small dirty brown envelope became heavier -- When he walked in The wailing stopped As a small kid stared at the Anonymous man with the One small dirty brown envelope -- He had been too late, the One small dirty brown envelope Was too late There would be no goodbye No tearfull final re-unions -- the one dirty brown envelope had a small carefully folded paper its edges betraying the shaki

I wonder If the sky turned red this evening, in Kashmir When people sat alone in their thoughts tears in their eyes listening to the muezzin whose calls seemed far away I wonder if the silence of night is broken only by sighs, in Kashmir phones ringing with rumors as others sit, long way away rum addled, staring  at empty glasses as the night is cut in half by the marching soldiers boots I wonder If the ink refuses to  stain the paper, in Kashmir each drop blotting into its own darkness The scribes scratch late into the night pouring their blood  on the papers when the ink refuses to write I wonder if Mothers staring out  of windows now, in Kashmir staring, whispering  like a chant, 'one day  it can be him, one day it can be him' --- For أفضل