Having forgotten Agha Shahid Ali a long time ago, he doesn’t live among us anymore.
Respecting the so-called sycophantic writers, we throw real gems into the dustbin.
Though he lived for Kashmir, he is weeping in his grave.
One who hurt his fingers to write our pain, is scarcely mentioned.
His genius is deliberately undermined to promote the scoundrels and blood suckers.
In a conflict zone, romantic poetry is a curse.
When souls are bruised, it needs the concrete solution.
When nature is decimated, what we do need!
Shahid knew it and wrote for a purpose.
He lived for Kashmir and Kashmir lived in him too.
But we live in Kashmir for money and safety.
How paradoxical the whole situation is!
Symposiums and book launches mean throwing dust into the watery eyes.
Shahid, don’t believe in us.
We change colour like chameleons.
We are rebels as well as informers.
But you are a rebel poet and the real gems recognize you.
Rest in peace, Shahid!