Dervishes in Snow

One Kashmir morning, the snow

Buried all the Dervishes, devouring the

Mad mendicants in white sheets,

melting them down into absolute nothings

leaving behind a flurry of green and white

The mehfils of God and Opium that stood

At the end of the cobbled-stoned lanes of my

Phantom Childhood, dissipated - like

crowds after a summer firing, leaving behind

puddles of coagulated rubies in their abandoned chappals

Betrayed by the mendicants- who claimed that

They wrote letters to God - lovers who

had carved desperate prayers on desolate walls

Lay abandoned holding onto chains

That hung on the intricate Arabic of the Astans

Now, they collect the dead and

Bury them in gardens of their hearts

Nourishing them with stories of long-forgotten loves,

Imploring them to take seed,

Promising them a Revolution

Comments

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.

Undelivered Package

There is an uprising coming it was supposed to be here yesterday but I suppose it is lost in the mail who do I write to the website had no address only a small warning goods once sold can not be returned maybe I should have known then not to trust Nigerian princes with unclaimed millions and fully functional revolutions leftover from the days of the next war Maybe it is stuck at customs maybe it would have been better to wait for my cousin to travel in, so he could sneak it in packed neatly between airport toblerone and contraband iphones

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

Tasenda

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