In memory of the desolate

There are empty picture frames
Hanging on walls of empty rooms
in Kashmir, Wisps of memories haunting
Desolate mothers and grieving wives,
Fatherless children crying into
a merciless night

Blue gypsies patrolling the
Desolate lanes of our memories,
while we clutch on tatters
of our forgotten dreams.
half defeated by bayonets
glistening in scarlet shadows

There are fading eyes that
Are fixed on wooden doors,
From where - a long time ago -
Hope was snatched, screaming
As it was dragged into the darkness
Of torture chambers that were once
Palaces built by others like you

There was a madness that
We hid under our nails,
Till you ripped them off
one-by-one, smiling as you
Asked us to love you, while
Slowly pouring acid down our
Throats

Comments

Unknown said…

It's so good to see you post after such a long time!

August 30, 2016 at 2:43 PM

Unknown said…

It's so good to see you post after such a long time!

August 30, 2016 at 2:43 PM

Indigo Halls of Imagined Gods

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

Zulaikha’s Lament

Blotted and Stained Like blood on apples, My reputation remains in tatters After these years But what was a woman to do? -- He had the face of An angel His shoulders, A sculptors dream His eyes, spoke a million languages his lips, like daggers driven apart -- I grew outside of Cairo Unloving father and sad mother Sold me for a goat and A bag of gold To the first merchant who They came across -- My Husband, Kind, Generous man Made me his wife And put me along with Thirteen others -- My Husband, Kind Generous man Kept me happy Visited me twice a month Blessing me with His drunken kisses and Impotent rage -- I was never sad What more could A woman want? Lots of wealth and An impotent husband Sex was a chore The price of being so glad -- Then he came Chained and covered with dust Another man from the Slave traders den He stood at the gate Neither sad nor in jest Even at a distance...

Torn Poster

You stare at me From that torn poster Like the protagonist of Some sad Palestinian film Your eyes, a blaze of Rebellion, your still breath Glazing all fear Striping everything away Making me swear The impossibility of my Love for you never Stuck me till it was Too late in the day I keep replaying In my mind, like A broken record set on fire, All scenarios and solution To this quagmire Unrequited love, you once Said was too much To bear, now that I am here I see what you meant You wrote letters of love But they were never addressed To me, The man who got them Set them ablaze even Before he read the tears Gazelles and dogged mirrors All lie broken at the feet Of an imagined world, even as You stare at me From that torn poster --

Tasenda

Search This Blog