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A Dirge from My Shrieked Silence

A Dirge from My Shrieked Silence
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To my every step,

There’s a uniformed man

Whose hands are soaked,

In the blood of my brethren


Would kill me,

If I resist being oppressed

Senses of the world leaders get defunct,

When there’s any question of violations in my homeland


How can I agree with the comment of heaven!!!

My eyes are witness to red colour streets & rivers only!

I see children battling for eyesight & life

I see myself in sand of despondency


My pen also failed,

As it tried to console me by writing colourful words

Day & night, all the time my soul asks me the same question:

Am I still alive??


As after witnessing the bloodbath,

I had bought my shroud…

The wails of those who mourn,

Are reverberating in my soul


Who knows what life is! none in this country

Torn clothes have become nightmares for women

The crowd as timorous for children

Every corner of my homeland has become a corpse alike


I see my diary full of blood whilst writing my ordeal

The blood of my brethren I see,

Is the answer to your curiosity

I do not see any colour except red,


As it has become my identity

My Kashmir is my Kashmir,

Choked on earth for its spellbinding beauty

Now birds & trees have also learnt how to offer funeral prayers


As we have been caged by our occupier

No people are needed, my oppressor says

But to show its deceitful care to the world, I’m integral to him

Now my eyes do not see the dreams of mounts, gardens, esthetics of my Kashmir


They only see coffins of children being ferried to graveyards

And still, I’ve a question,

Am I still alive? Or it’s a reverie…




*The poet is an Independent Researcher & Aspiring Social Worker. He can be reached at

Disclaimer: Views  expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position and policy of Oracle Opinions. 

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