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!

Beautiful! Live smart, keep away from BigHeads :)
ReplyDeleteTrue that! :)
Deleteoh no .. how big was it .. Hope it made the fallen person realise its time to move on ..
ReplyDeleteBikram's
Hahaha... Hope so too.
DeleteHaven't found anyone as yet without Ego!
ReplyDeleteI have to agree with you on this one.
DeletePassionate. The dichotomy of love nicely expressed:)
ReplyDeleteThanks Vishal.
DeleteImpressive words
ReplyDeleteThanks!
Deletelove ur style. :)
ReplyDeleteThanks and welcome back :)
DeleteAha! :)
ReplyDeleteLovely! Ignore the big heads :)
ReplyDeleteYes! :)
DeleteSo true!
ReplyDeleteYou certainly have a way with words Saru. I sometimes don't know what to say I am so spellbound. Have you published anything?
ReplyDeleteTruly honored. Yes, I have, an anthology - Rousing Cadence.
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