Tasenda

Misery filled our lungs long before you, But then you came guns blazing and tear gas popping Shooting us, shouting   ,  we come in peace,  we come in love Fuck you and fuck your guns,  I will be ready to die  before you can even count to ten But how will you know,  who I am,  When I wash up already dead on The door of my own house, My million fragmented dreams Seeping out of my skin,  the last wisps my mortal soul escaping with only Dreams I ever had You will build tombs of your victory Over the ruins of my house, In Gaza,  in Damascus and in Srinagar I will be long dead,  but even in My grave I shall claw at the foundations Of your houses,  that you build over My playgrounds I will whisper the guilt into your ears Long after last band has gone home, Scratch my history into your very skin Right where your sins grafted into mine and my half dead will loom in your family portraits  haunting you till the very end You will find my book of love songs,  In my old rooms, 

In Kashmir Tragedy doesn't strike you,  It seeps inside you, like a malignant disease  Slowly making its way to your brain,   Disintegrating your mental faculties,  one by one.  Taking you apart one minute at a time,  making happiness  A sepia picture that grandfather  Put up on the wall of the ancestral house,   That is now just a road,  with every passing car Raising dust over your family tree,  the room where  You once crawled,  teeming with unruly pedestrians,   Grounding your memories to mere dust,  walking by  an invisible house with blue windows and tin sheeted gate. In Kashmir,  tragedy doesn't seek you,  it survives you.