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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