An Ode to Little Kaneez

A childhood heist that stole once more,
Came to your door through a ‘stray bullet’.
Some will call you a ‘collateral wound’,
That never heals and never fills,
But remains stitched to the bearer’s womb.

Some will call you a ‘murder plain’,
Aimed at by an ‘assassin unknown’,
Yet we all know what kills us all,
But none will dare to bare the arm.

Sleep little child in your perpetual dream,
Freed from our immeasurable pain,
Of a pupilage deprived place,
Where playgrounds have hidden mines,
And gardens have unmarked graves.
Where orchards border concertina,
And hilltops have prying eyes.
Where girls drown in waters two feet deep,
Where children are scattered in winds of war.

Sleep little child in your perpetual dream,
Wandering in those meadow lands,
Where shells won’t maim and the bullet won’t aim,
Where we won’t be called just a ‘collateral damage’.

~S~

~ Posthumous notes of the withered Chinar ~

Posthumous notes of the withered Chinar

 

I have seen the spring weep,

When stripped kids were flogged cold,

And marks of lashes ran like veins.

Their nails were then ripped with pliers,

Hands left bare like bark-less trees,

With nothing to write and nothing to scream,

When bullet magazines muzzled mouths.

I have seen that spring cry.

 

I saw the summer aimed in queues,

A hundred and twenty fell like pins nine,

And their cries nobody heard,

The kid sought a pear and was trampled upon.

Those evenings when no birds flew,

For homes were not to be returned again,

Strangulated by an enforced quiet,

When the city gasped under a cavalry noose.

 

I witnessed the autumn burning red,

In hues like fires those consumed all.

When crimson flames were mistaken dusk,

And wails of a town were shut inside.

I then wept in solitary confines,

When all my arms had shed to char,

Burning my bloom on a cremation pyre,

And I stood alone bereaving my death.

 

 

~S~

~ Decorated Corpse Of A State ~

The pitiless decorated corpse of a state,

Raised a proclamation on a shroud tied slate,

‘None that who lives shall strive to speak,

For speech is called a dissenting crime’.

‘Nor the ones who live shall dare to breathe,

For such breaths could transmit sedition along,

And raise a shrill against the corpse dead state’.

Since the state is dead, the living shall too,

Pretend not to live and attempt not to breathe.

Else the shroud tied to the dead stone slate,

Shall be made a noose where the dissent be hanged.

~S~

~Fragments ~

I searched for fragments of a storm
That left me scarred without any face
And passed me by, wilted and broken.

Now I collect my scattered pieces,
Over frost of a never been spring,
And give away to those, who claim,
Their piece in me, but not me.

When I am given away to you,
In grains of chunks and fractions you sought,
What shall remain will you ask,
In remnants of my scarp and shred?
Will you see the thousand lights,
That still glow in my enduring cuts?
Will you look at the thousand frescos,
Those still hold your memory frames?

~S~