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.
Reading the Words series remind me of those microtales, which are so emotional and beautiful stories in few lines. Like a gnat, they sting and vanish, leaving one wondering what hit them.
ReplyDeleteLovely!
Thanks for a beautiful and encouraging comment, Rakesh. :)
DeleteLove the words, Saru. It's beautifully unique:)
ReplyDeleteThanks, Vishal :)
DeleteYour words make me speechless ! I wonder,how's that ?
ReplyDeleteHehehe... That's very flattering.
DeleteWith so few words, you convey so much thought and depth! I can't admire that enough. :)
ReplyDeleteThanks, Raj. Humbled!
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