On her frail shoulders, the threads of Pashmina talk. Of a valley, of heaven, of a moonlit night. Demure, she froze amidst the discordant noise, Charred bodies around her, her flesh and blood died. On moonlit nights, hence she walks barefoot on the snow, Suffering within and out, I can listen, what her silence speaks out loud. Deranged, Demented, She drags her body around, Unaware, Listless, what she has lost can never be found. I call her, whenever she passes by me, I have been piling up sorrows as debris. Come! My child Let me hear your pain, Let me soothe your wounds, Let me jostle your soul, So you shed a tear. I know your pain, I have done all this myself, And I have been there. This poem narrates the sufferings of women who lost their families in Kashmir Valley. *Disclaimer - Title is inspired by Sonnet 30 of Shakespeare.
It’s all about creating magic in words!

Heh heh! I read it so seriously... till the punchline, which floored me! :D
ReplyDeleteWhoever said that only short stories can have twists? :D
Hehehe... Thank you, Rakesh! :)
DeleteHeck these Wifies :P :D
ReplyDeleteI swear!
DeleteGood twist..!
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteThat's a pretty wise and cunning twist! Like I liked it seriously :-D
ReplyDeleteHehehe... Thank you :)
DeleteWhoa! Expect the unexpected from you Saru :)
ReplyDeleteLOL! :)
DeleteHahaha Nice one. :)
ReplyDeleteThank you
DeleteHahhaa...didn't expect the last line.
ReplyDeleteHehehe!
DeleteHe he he.. Nice one Saru :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Anjali! :)
DeleteHaha... #realitycheck indeed... :-D awesome!
ReplyDeleteThanks dear :)
Deletesuperb climax
ReplyDeleteThanks!
Deletelol good one.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
DeleteGood one!
ReplyDelete:-) Nice one!
ReplyDelete:)
DeleteFar fetched! Amazing..!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Sir.
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