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!

Sometimes some relations can never be mended and better left alone. Nice touchy lines.
ReplyDeleteSo true and thanks for reading.
DeleteBut she was searching, hoping....
ReplyDeleteHoping against hope...
DeleteMuch realistic and heartwarming... but hope never ends! Wish she could get a little piece of coal amidst those ashes.
ReplyDeleteWhat a beautiful thought, Maitreni. :)
DeleteAmazing! Beautifully weaved, Saru :)
ReplyDeleteThank you, Purba!
DeleteLovely! You excel at this format, Saru.
ReplyDeleteThanks Rachna!
DeleteLife thrives on hope not hopelessness.
ReplyDeleteSo true...
DeleteSad...
ReplyDeleteSad but better to end a relationship when there is no hope left in it.
ReplyDeleteI agree. Why out yourself through misery?
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