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.
That is so cute. :) Nice one. You always manage to pack so much in so few words.
ReplyDeleteAnd you are always extravagant in complimenting.
Deletehahaha that's cute ... I used to say the same for hiccups :D
ReplyDeleteHi-fi!
DeleteSo much packed in so few words:)
ReplyDeleteThank you, sir 😃
DeleteAww....that's so adorable....:)
ReplyDeleteThanks 😊
Delete:) :) he he he
ReplyDeleteBikram's
☺
DeleteNow that's surely an 'aww' worthy post. Quite like the wordplay there :D.
ReplyDeleteHumbled ❤
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