Kashmir Lit

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Greetings from the Valley of Grief, Dr. Shahid Iqbal

 

 

for Milad

 

Mother Kangaroo

Teach us the art of Pouch.

For we live in the Land of

Snakes. Snakes,

That swallow, alive, our

Children.

 

Children, born out

Of eyes, not wombs.

Holy Tear Drops

Trickle down Mom’s Cheeks

And pierce Pa’s Heart.

 

Foretellers on seeing our

Foreheads, beat their

Foreheads.

 

Children.

Born children,

Grown Children,

Un-grown children.

 

Children.

Land of Children,

Sowing seeds of Children,

Reaping Crops of Children.

 

Children

Fresh Children.

Young Children,

Old Children.

 

Children.

Fathers of Children,

Mothers of Children,

Teachers of Children.

 

 

These Doves and Sparrows

I Hate them.

Why flowers blossom?

Burn them.

Tell a spring day,

Come not my way.

 

For grief is our Master,

We sell and buy Sorrow.

These burning Eyes

And weeping Candles.

From our fields we

Reap sighs and moans.

 

Day, Do not break

Let the Night clad our days.

With every dawn that

I see, I see fear

With every Dusk that

I bade, I bade a tear.

Scream, for Songs are Lies.

Weep, for Dance is a Disturbance.

 

Milad, sleeping on his

Death Bed, caught hold

Of my hand, and Whispered

In my ear, “Ha, Bury me

In our playground

For some day I may

Get up and play with

My Playmates.

They owe me a turn,

A Game.”

 

Dr. Shahid Iqbal is a medical doctor based in Kashmir.

 

 

 
 

 

 

Red

In the city of red on a red evening with

Head on a red pillow in a red sleep

I had a red dream.

 

Far at the horizon is the red sky

Where on a red planet dwells a red maid

Who distributes red roses.

 

From her red eyes along her red cheeks

Trickle red tears that bring red showers

To my green valley.

 

There red springs sprout from red stones

And wash red babies in the lap of red mothers

Sucking red milk.

.

From a red shopkeeper for a red school boy

I bought a red toy and found his face

Red with red joy.

 

In a red rat hole is a red stolen grain

Of a red brave farmer who in his red field

Sows red seeds of hope.

 

From a red apple tree in the red late autumn

We pick red fruit to sell red sweat

For a red little penny.

 

Where a red bride rides a red cart driven

By red legs on red roads to catch

The red groom on a red feast.

 

Where a red teacher teaches red lessons

From a red book and writes red words with

A red chalk on a red black board.

 

Where a red little son asks his red old father

Walking on a deserted red road

The meaning of red.

 

Where the red hands weave a red cloth for

A red grave where a red boy has

His red shirt torn by red laws.

 

Red king rides red drunk horses

With a red sharp sword cuts red little

Throats into red little pieces.

 

Red is my robe red is my crown

Red be the river to

Sail my red boat.

 

Red is my bowel red is my rice

Red be the water to quench

My red thirst.

On the red hot day (Judgment Day) on the red

Golden throne the red great God

Will judge the red petition.

 

Where the red mosque muazin shouts

A red loud azaan on a red loud speaker

And breaks my red slumber.

 

Red is my shirt red is my prayer

My prayer for the red

To grow into green.