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Writer's pictureDoors Magazine

Trailing Nooran

by Almas Thanzi



The other day I followed Nooran into a nameless land.


She opened her potli of memories to me one by one.


Her world is not a canvas with strokes of colours


It burns unusually for worthless causes


Fueled by the crimson flame tongues


Setting the seventh heaven ablaze


The poison has seeped deep into the valleys of Sonmarg


The sapphires of Pangong turned into mutated rocks


From all the fear and trepidation


She kept locked up in her jaws


Unsent letters of lovers hover in the silence of Srinagar


Throngs of crowds at funerals


Under the feet of Himalayas


Where an Usthad in his sarong plays his sitar


He sings of Khadeeja,


a bride in waiting


But her Rasul never came.


Under the quilted blanket of million burning stars


A fatherless boy acquaints himself with the wisp of the night


Whilst his Mai,


sings lullabies to the sounds of pellets


Sleep unfazed, patrolled the streets blugeoned by brisk bullets


Nooran handed me over her potli of memories


She said this memory of Zulm will be bequeathed to generations to come!

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