My death won't be covered

No obits, no pictures

No profiles with a catalogue of dreams

No 3000 word essays in the New Yorker

Maybe an inch in the local paper

My death wont be covered

I am not sexy enough

I am not white enough

I am not interesting enough

Unless they can pin something on me

My death won't be covered

My blood isn't red enough

My grief isn't relatable enough

My life isn't worth enough

Maybe it is not fashionable enough

My death won't be covered

Public executions don't draw crowds

Private ones cost a fortune

Poverty is a boon after all

Not everyone has company in the grave after all

My death won't be covered

I don't have a name or even a number

I don't have a home or even a shroud

I don't have a bomb or even a cause

Or a mortgage to buy a few minutes of respite

My death won't be covered

And i won't even be remembered

But my oppressor will be celebrated

His pain will be taught in schools

While,

My death won't be covered

And I won't even be remembered

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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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