Written In Early Spring Twenty-Thirteen

Ah that last spring, my love! We would sit in the forenoons, Lone and free meadows grew almonds; And recite my wet vaporing lines— Praising the arriving nomads, and the tranquil country. O the dusky woods’ view all around And like we lolled in their restful lap. And that history-man, my far-friend, Would read it and re-read, and stop, and sigh! And then slowly wrap up wiping with his finger Tears ‘d accumulate on his lids— As beautiful as are the sunlit dews in early-summer’s dawn Or tiny diamonds glimmering on the gowns of Arabian belly-dancers. And see this spring h’w has begun! It seems this whole spring, my love! We have to be indoors in fear. written in early spring of 2014 when Afzal Guru was hanged in Tihar Jail by the Indians. And Kashmir was shut for some two weeks...