A Dirge from My Shrieked Silence
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 khanansurfeb2011@gmail.com
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.
