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!

A great description of a broken heart.
ReplyDeleteModern day Cinderella! I see at as an empowerment story !
ReplyDeleteThat's an interesting perspective, Prateek.
DeleteWow...only you can write like this.
ReplyDeleteHumbled, Ranjana :)
DeleteModern. Stark reality.
ReplyDeleteSadly so!
DeleteTouching lines.
ReplyDeleteThough it does denote an altogether different story but it could be a slipper too conventionally..so, throw or not throw is not the question, the question now is slippers or slipper:)
ReplyDeleteLovely! :) and so true.
ReplyDeleteThat is a unique story of a broken heart, Saru:)
ReplyDeleteWords describing the fragility of a broken heart, beautiful!
ReplyDelete