Angular Mohabbat

This Angular Mohabbat

Fashioned out of old wives tales

Of failed romances, dead Mahiwals and broken hearts

A tapestry of faded old songs.

Their meaning now buried under the years

Shadowed by the daily routine, This Angular Mohabbat

So black and white like sacred pianos of Time

Voice garbled by the sadness of being alive,

An orchestra of Beatle look-alikes

Our madness now accentuated by the rising sun

All those people we talked to now dead

Poets that no longer kill, disappearing along their own trials

Crying out

Khatam-Shud, Khatam-Shud

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I have seen your dreams

I have seen your dreams I know why you scream Why the city of your heart is so utterly desolate I see graves shimmering, with Mountains on fire, windows shuttered and empty picture frames Vendors of rain litter your streets, knocking down broken deodar doors Slogans smeared on your empty walls, promising that the revolution is in the air Boarded-up lanes guarded by strays Lead up to vacant homes, embers of lost stories keeping fire barely alive Even your distant skies, a screenshot of paisleys inlaid with grief are knotted into a prison made of shattered glass I have seen your dreams I know why you scream !!

A peace of my heart

I should have done have done this a long time ago. In the last three (or is it four) days of curfew. I have been intending to write. But I have made up some brilliant excuses to excuse my self from writing. I have been playing games on my ancient computer or else I have been reading about superheroes and comic books on the internet. And once in a while, I check out the death toll. There is something which is gnawing at my heart. Every night, I hear sounds in the distance. They sound like women and children screaming. To shut their voices I talk to my half sleepy friends on the phone till I am bored to the point of exhaustion and fall asleep. But even in my sleep the voices are not shut out. They invade my dreams and my thoughts. I am dream that I am trying to set up a date and then suddenly without a warning, the dream changes, I am being chased in a dark alley which has no end. I cannot see what is chasing me, but its closing on me. As that thing grabs me, cold sweat breaks out

My death won't be covered

My death won't be covered No obits, no pictures No profiles with a catalogue of dreams No 3000 word essays in the New Yorker Maybe an inch in the local paper My death wont be covered I am not sexy enough I am not white enough I am not interesting enough Unless they can pin something on me My death won't be covered My blood isn't red enough My grief isn't relatable enough My life isn't worth enough Maybe it is not fashionable enough My death won't be covered Public executions don't draw crowds Private ones cost a fortune Poverty is a boon after all Not everyone has company in the grave after all My death won't be covered I don't have a name or even a number I don't have a home or even a shroud I don't have a bomb or even a cause Or a mortgage to buy a few minutes of respite My death won't be covered And i won't even be remembered But my oppressor will be celebrated His pain will be taught in schools While, My death won't be co

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