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.