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

Comments

FULCRUM IAS said…

Lovely poem, Tasim. As I say always, enchanted.

April 22, 2015 at 3:39 AM

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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