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.
A good morning read :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Prateek for your constant support. :)
DeleteThat's so sweet. :)
ReplyDeleteWhere do you get this optimism from?:-)
ReplyDeleteFrom all the nice people around me. :)
DeleteRainbows are beautiful. .
ReplyDeleteYes! :)
DeleteI like this attitude. Turning negative into positive.. Nicely written, Saru
ReplyDeleteThanks Ranjana :)
DeleteWhat a lovely read. I like the way you have put in so many emotions in so few words :).
ReplyDeleteHumbled, thanks Aseem :)
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