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!

Lovely. :) I am amazed as to how you do it. Such a deep impact in so few words.
ReplyDeletei know that's you signature
ReplyDeleteSo much said in so few words!
ReplyDeleteEight words, one numeral, one comma and two full stops...And there is a story that can well be a novel! Amazing!
ReplyDeleteकम शब्दों में गहरी बात !! बढ़िया
ReplyDeleteMemory aches!
ReplyDeleteheart touching
ReplyDeleteAchingly true...☺
ReplyDeleteShort but awesome.
ReplyDelete