In an hour, I have lived three decades.

On a great white morning,

I dreamt of Kashmir.

On the banks of the Jhelum

Death lay resplendent, like the sinless virgin.

Beside it, stood two hounds 

With eyes that stole from me 

Something I never Loved.

The waters of the Vitastā, 

Of Vyēth, Of Jhelum languished in perfect memory. 

Under its depths, 

Eternity billowed up columns of deathless air. 

Vitastā sacrificed its blood.

Jhelum stole it. 

And I dreamt of Kashmir.

I believe if I speak of Kashmir,

The Earth would bleed tears.

So I love it from far away

Like all great tragedies must be loved.

In an hour, I have lived three decades.

If I turn back,

I will be robbed of everything. 

In an hour, I have lived an Eternity.

From my ashes,

Kashmir shall be cleansed

And the Vitastā shall be purified.

I am in them,

And that is Eternity.

In Khanqah Mohalla, a home stands

Dead and wails its silent sobs,

Like tears masked in the rain.

All around, nothing remains.

On its wounded wall, it reads, ‘Aazadi!’.

On another, the furore of ‘Inquilaab!’ rings

Louder and louder, pregnant with hate. 

On the street of Death, the Gods of Yore

Stare at Kashmir with despairing eyes.

I ask, ‘Where were you?’

They answer, ‘Where were you?’

In an hour, three decades have lived in me.

And all the while,

I have dreamt of Kashmir. 

 

Maybe Mothers would beat their breasts

When they see what Death did

To their Sons. Maybe Fathers would leave their homes 

To finally go fishing, 

And fish for hours with baited hooks.

When the songbird sang of Death

A woman in China wept her cursed tears for her Love 

That lay marooned under the Great Wall. 

They say the wall fell.

On the banks of the Danube, a group of Jews 

Worshiped their God and when shot

Embraced the weeping river with perfect grace.

And so does the Earth keep spinning and turning

And the great Lord sees that all is well.

Maybe I will go to St. Petersburg

And in the square speak with heavy authority

That the great Russian — Dostoevsky was right all along.

I know it is a small thing. But I frighten easily.

Maybe I would talk to men of War

And see them lay down their arms and weep

And run back home to steal from their wives

A final kiss.

So that we all may glide off in Peace,

And not howling

Like loveless orphans

In these endless centuries of War.

I wrote on a piece of paper

The following — ‘The Secret to Poetry’

And put it away.

Now it lies at the corner of my cupboard

Gathering dust,

Unwritten.

At night, Delhi looks like Bengaluru.

Everyday, I see people — like ghosts

Their silhouettes cut across the fabric

Of twilight.

Maybe I should walk up to them and ask them their name, 

Or maybe not.

On mornings of disquiet — the Earth dances

In profound ecstasy.

By writing poems, we affirm and honor life.

We say, ‘We loved the Earth, but could not stay.’

The ground beneath me bled.

It could not bear me.

I cried, ‘We loved the Earth, but could not stay.’

At night,

The ground beneath me shone red with tears,

At night.

Once again, Delhi looks like Bengaluru. 

We have lost our twilight.

With blistered feet and a heavy heart,

I put myself to rest

On your gentle bosom.

Why does my love come on me suddenly,

When I am sad and feel you far away?

Where do I go?

What do I seek?

I saw you through my blindness,

And heard your melody wash on deaf ears.

But when you call

I turn away.

I have lived this troubled fiesta of the soul 

All over again.

Always, 

Like the setting sun

You recede gently through my evenings

Toward the unkempt treasures 

Of a tremendous dawn.