KASHMIR – POEM

Bruised pop got a sharp point pen
In Kashmir, that could someday pen my end.
I reached to know and was uneasy to grasp the eye of.
“The pen is mightier than the sword,” they confess
And all selves prescient meant that deep down in the sharp point pen
The blood drops will be wielded as ink to inflict it well.
I’d like to behold it on my pop’s hand and reveal before the realm.

I ‘ll tell you the tale I need to reflect by keeping in view the blood-stained aisles of my hapless Valley.
You recall the address once you professed, you knew the place where literature is void; you then uttered the place is Kashmir,
Forthwith, I ‘ll warn you
The timely birds brought in the prolificacy on the parched land of Valley,
And have rimmed the contemporary intuition of bygone one;
But I’ve hemmed it more to reach it to the screened elevations of it.

You murmured you had discerned the Valley with no bloodshed and prison cell.
Well, I ‘ll tell you the tale I need to reflect by keeping in view the blood-stained aisles of my hapless Valley.
Here, I shall
Have you anywise vouched a mother sobbing over the cadaverous body of her son lately came?
Some day you will.
Moans of sisters never ever reached anywhere,
Fathers who have lost their sons are still stuck in coveting their sight,
Today, tomorrow, every day.

Huh! that gone upheaval, do you aspire to heed?
Let’s discuss that too
To amaze you, I’ll tell you the tale I need to reflect by keeping in view the blood-stained aisles of my hapless Valley.
Unearth the path not deterred,
Unearth the path not blooded,
Unearth the man hanging around willingly, in the vale seized
Will you?
You can’t, but you will get at the people shrieking, to have their liberties back.
No qualm, I am ample of agony and grieve,
The peaks of Kashmir themselves can’t condone the desperation
I keep saving for years.

If I recall barely, The birds who had built the potency to curb the
Grisly sadism are now in graves,
And a man of forty who strived to subsist life with his own tribe was shot whether in his home or outside.
An aborning infant who had not beheld his parents was bulleted in some outrageous clashes.
You won’t learn anyone shortly behind rioting or stumbling upon the spur to boycott for his right.
But you have divulged the evil of the place.

Young as I am, I’ll pick that pen up to let myself write the doom, the doom, has already been won by squalid people of the world.
I am not a man of Knowledge, embarking to be,
I am still not a laureate, embarking to be,
I’m going to wield my pen to outline until there is life in me and blood flowing in my veins.
I am the victim of this risky dungeon and that is why I can spurn to draw the extensive discrepancy of old and new Kashmir.
I won’t accept the ruthlessness of Valley. It’s all leaning on us to draw the intricate impression of it.

‘I want you to come’
And grab a glimpse of the natural elegance of the world,
Do you adore nature?
However, let me tell you the tail again I need to reflect by keeping in view the blood-stained aisles of my hapless Valley.
Well then, listen to me,
Once, the intriguing essence of the Valley,
Faded away by the superfluous harassment.
And none could then strive to withstand as the wishes succumbed by the unruly savagery.
If you reach straight down the Valley, you can scrutinize the birds persecuted.
It’s agony for people when the same birds flying over their graves.

As of now, do some uncertainties still breathe in your psyche? likewise, I’ll tell you the tale I need to reflect by keeping in view the bloodstained aisles of my hapless valley.
The poets have commenced composing the poems, and have put their paces to spawn the
Impoverished literature with a young hope of tomorrow,
By imbuing it with affluent one, to fecund it’s infecundity.

Certainly, my demand is to have my sharp point pen;
I would write about the occurrence and would write about my doom.
Let me write, let me write.
Someday, I flawlessly surmise you’d find the place just as not
maleficent but a place purged wherein ardent souls are born and laureates are up to arriving.

NOTE: The line “The pen is mightier than the sword” has been borrowed from Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s historical play Cardinal Richelieu.