Words fly by me
like a super train on its magnetic track,
like an aircraft piercing the dead sky,
like a Shikara wading through fumigated Dal.
Nausea stirs their meaning, their form,
like fumes of an exothermic reaction,
like monsoon clouds on Himalayas,
like faces of dead in a fake encounter.
Do they fear abandonment
like the wish of every child to grow old,
like Sohni clinging on to molded clay,
like Dhoks of the detained shepherds?
I try jumbling them up again
like heap of fallen leaves in autumn,
like the kings & queens and pawns,
like thousands of bones in a mass-grave.
What if they arranged themselves
into chants of An Al Haq
into songs of celebration
into news “Shot dead” ?
Or what if they disappeared
like the warmth of spring,
like news of disappeared.
Or what if they rebelled and
poured out the tales of heart.
Or spoke what’s not unheard,
or defied the curfew and got killed.
Would the poem complete itself then
or would it lose itself and disappear?
Would it protest and get killed too?
Or would it remain incomplete, forever.