My Kashmir Burns (Part 1)

I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood. I groom myself with exquisite things, Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn. Mosques are being slammed There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber Even God judges on evidence There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding And I write. Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies They are alive now. Soon they will be dead From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown Ghosts of curfew Haunt the houses for young souls. From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave. I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep While my Kashmir is ablaze “It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”. I see him so alive in my dreams. He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails. I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene “Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state. Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.” I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood. His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more. On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail. Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones. For bullets there will be stones Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones. In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out Death is recruiting in dozens at a time. Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass. How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity People burn up all you identity cards.