Strange Colours Of Kashmir

Under the wide grey
Behind those high blues
There is a red vale
In the name of green
Where every dark scar
Is deeper than a black hole

Where meadows are lush
But glum with grief
Where the echoes are mere airs moving
Habitual of such shrieks
I see hawks searching
For their prey

I see so many dead
Even before they’re wed
Where death never bothers
The young and old

Where every living heart
Is quite and cold
I see blinds walking
On their usual streets
And the lone question they have
“Where are those colours, That we could see?”

Look! Every dry leaf here moans with pain
And tall burning chinar,
Begs for rain
I see a rose crying
In memory of its gardener

I see a boundless herd
Bleating for its master
Where the pet pigeons leave
To sit beside their known tomb

Where the mother wails
For her faithless womb,
I am living in a beautiful prison
Where atrocities never fled
And where every sacred window is full of tied threads.

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