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
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