Where does this sadness stem from?
Who stitches its shadows to the faces in the city?
From which shrine, which fountain does this quietude flow?
Flowers age untimely, the cold summer refuses to leave.
Last spring, we wore a facade of faltering smiles
Tiny buds were breaking into dead flowers.
We had nothing left to harvest.
crooning to me the songs of a city Srinagar isn’t.
In the corners of my dreams
distant gunshots still hunt for young flesh.
Their prayers for peace taste of our blood.
But who is this hopeful child
who walks in the streets of the memory tonight?
who demands you sink your feet into the earth and stay.
Cordoned from every sides, a dream has no curfew pass
Even in my memory, the bullets compete for his laugh!
Blood gushes down my corridor.
Hope flies past the checkpoint.
Now my palms, too, read to me, my history.