Skip to main content

Can you hear me



Can you hear me 

in the echoes of those 

ancient duststorms that 

wandered the prehistoric earth

Before the time, when

the mountain was lake

and you lay in arms


i have always been here

just beyond the corner 

of your eye flirting

with the edge of the mirror 


can you hear me

tapering through the stone

breathing ever so delicately, like the wind 

blowing through a slow delhi afternoon


i have always been here

a forgotten memory, held

hostage by a desprate love 

trying to call you over all this din


can you hear me

a vagarant song on loose lips 

sneaking around the world by hitching

 rides along with unsuspecting ruffians

feeding on scraps of love that you 

unwittingly throw away  


i have always been here

embedded in radio broadcasts and

sewn into silver midnight light

sending out SOSes through ripples of time


Can you hear me !!


please.








Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

In Barely Discernible Darkness

I will trace the Jhelum Across Your back with my fingers In barely discernible darkness It will form a paisley Drawn from the memory of An imagined Kashmir No language spoken by Man or Gods shall be Uttered that night Words will be melded, Sentences molded to form A new language of love The ink, a fine powdered Amethyst, shall dry as We write its grammar The quill tips, fashioned From old bones, shall Burn in its blaze The room will be Full of scorch marks In barely discernible darkness -- Tz
1 comment
Read more

Surviving Kashmir

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.
3 comments
Read more

Chapter 9: Madness

I hold onto the ledge of sanity by the edges of my fingernails polishing a tune that i heard long ago on radio Kashmir, sandwiched between propaganda and farmer's show, where they taught how to sow blood in fields of saffron to reap a harvest of dead bodies mutilated with joy and skinned alive by bayonet edges and threshed by a machine made of army boots I hold onto the ledge of sanity by edge of my fingernails playing an imaginary santoor, made by the last santoor master of Srinagar, its wires made of Human tendons and its small wooden hammers, bones of young poetess its fickle frame crushed bone of orphaned children trafficked from mortared houses into army camps disguised as play grounds I hold onto the ledge of sanity by edges of my finger nails dreaming about refuge in the asylum of ugly emperors and handsome beggars hiding behind masks of iron, smelted by gunpowder made behind the mosque made of stone, where th...
1 comment
Read more