Among the 20 snowy mountains,
Bloody hands grew like weeds to the sky,
As the blackbird glided across, silently,
The only thing moving was its dark eyes.
It should have noticed the crawling shadows that stopped
belonging to ‘people’
– ‘who belong to their own land’.
It should have noticed the fumes rising out of their
whispers,
Whimpering ‘what about us, our children, our land’.
The bruised apples that still look shiny in the far off
markets.
The pashmina that is synonymous to its geographical
indicator,
for many a territory in tasavvur.
But the blackbird glided on,
Its steady wings riding upon the air current,
To some other land,
Across some other river/mountain/valley.
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