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Wailing Woes

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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.
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I stretch my fingers, But mind says 'No'; Voice of my loved ones, Trails me as an echo. Persuading my heart, To sway away from phone; Keep it down, You live in a different time zone. Different time zone, I fumble in my thoughts. Morning, noon and night; I am out of sorts. It's perfect here, Too perfect for me, Like dead flowers adorned as a potpourri. Drowning in the timeline, Submerging in seven vast oceans. No distance in the world, Can cause this massive erosion. A part of me, my soul, Never left my house courtyard. If ever you want to collect me, my pieces, You know where to start.
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