By Nayyar Hilal
In the Bloodied Dal
These days, darkness spreads over every corner.
Those streets, I once passed by
are engulfed in smoke.
Rooftops, where snowflakes used to collect
are blazing in wildfires.
Lush chinars, are naked now
and cry for help!
Flowers once bloomed fearlessly,
now blood drips from petals.
In the Dal water has turned to blood –
I tried to write with it but
my hands are trapped in barbed wires.
Kashmir: Beautifully crafted
I am driven toward the aroma of Kulchas –
Baking in the mud stove.
The warmth of the blazing fire is noisy with
Ladies talking about the neighbourhood happenings.
Gardens are filled with dancing flowers
And the Bulbul murmurs love songs.
The awaiting dew on the grass,
Is lifted by the sunrays,
As does the soul from a body dead.
The elfin moonlight, through
The Himalayas stands exposed.
The beetle sounds in the dark nights
Are symphonies to Lal Ded poems.
Nayyar Hilal is a 17-year-old Kashmiri. He is a writer by choice.
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