The Bleeding Shikaras

By Abdul Kuddus

Return to spells of peaceful slumbers….
When the lakes kissed the shikaras in numbers.
Ears sing to the rhythm of gunshots…
As two landmass fight for scenic spots.
Corpses litter the ground in white drapes….
And our miseries end as videotapes.
Crimson red drips down shirt collars….
Bullets grace homes funded by dollars.
The streets, lakes and the mountains wail….
Pellet guns roar and silence prevail.
Return to spells of peaceful slumbers….
When the lakes kissed the shikaras in numbers.

Lives end as body counts, statistics and numbers….
We seek a turf where nothing encumbers.
Our heaven is a wound—festering in pain….
The valley is knifed again and again.
Smiles vanish in thin air….
In a tussle between stones and guns—unfair.
The boots tramp the streets with hate….
And we wait in earnest for a welcoming fate.
Return to spells of peaceful slumbers….
When the lakes kissed the shikaras in numbers.
We lay bruised and bitten close to the gushing streams….
And you sleep at ease in air-conditioned reams.
You narrate our stories in digital modes….
We profusely bleed in the arterial roads.
Privileged you are to decree and preach in digital ink….
But don’t let our silent shikaras sink.
Return to spells of peaceful slumbers….
When the lakes kissed the shikaras in numbers.

Pic credit: Governancenow.com