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

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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

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.

Some Other Time

We will be counting days again, till we say hello again— only for us to say goodbye again. We always knew we’d have to say our goodbyes one day. Then why does it hurt so? Even so, when we know it won’t be long before even goodbyes are a luxury. We cling to hopes— that this isn’t the only life we will live. That one day, we will meet again, in some other life, in some other time, where we won’t have to say G oodbye.

Tasenda

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