In
Srinagar,
In
bylane behind a bylane,
Surrounded
by empty darkness
And plastered
in sound-muffling mud
Is
an old workshop,
that was once a home
Where
they break
little
boys and old men
to
make them sing
Miraculous
little white lies
before
sending them off
To
be sold in small bottles
in
the weekly bazar
Next
to silken wounds
woven
in absurdities
--
Our
tangled, unkempt memories,
Lie
strewn around the floor
like
discarded histories of former lovers
and
a single, solitary question
scribbled
by broken fingernails
across
ugly walls,
barely
visible under hurriedly
whitewashed
walls,
Am I
dead yet?
--
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