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.