Yours

There are times when

I wish I knew magic

I would weave a spell,

I would conjure a trick

I would heal your heart,

But

There is no magic in the world

There are no phoenix tears

No enchanted pomegranates

No exorcisms for the ghosts of pain

No magical mortar to cement broken hearts

There are times when

I wish miracles still happened

I wish prophets still walked the earth

I would visit every messiah I could find

I would follow every prophet to heal your heart

But,

The Dead no longer rise on a touch

The seas no longer part for striking rods

The Lepers refuse to dance with joy

The moon and the stars are no longer cleaved

There are times when

I wish time travel was possible

I would freeze time and trace back steps

I would stop you from walking to that moment

I would break the space-time continuum

But,

Rivers refuse to go upstream

Mountains refuse to bow

Sands refuse to meld in the sun

But,

I cannot heal your heart,

No matter how much I try

No matter how hard I cry

All I can do is give you mine

Take it,

It’s yours

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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.

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...

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In Barely Discernible Darkness

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