May the Army be Defeated

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Photo: Omair Bhat
This poem was written in October, 2016 in response to what was happening in Kashmir at that time; when Kashmir flooded in abundance of blood, bullets and stones.  At every primal stroke of midnight, the heart turns paper, and behind every chord flutters a spasm of blue. Someone writes: Autumn teaches us to let things go. I don’t know what Winter does. A good prison life, maybe? The inability to cross borders, and comfort? Someone else writes: What’s keeping you alive these days? Sometimes you turn me into the enemy – at mid-days or after midnights – and sometimes I collect away all your silences. Symbols have lost meaning between us. A war zone is a war zone, after all; never a home that runs on loss. I’ve learnt that your house hides well behind the woods. Behind mine, a gulmohar would stand strong if not for the world. We’ve been betrayed as guerrilla poets – how well we made invisible an entire birth, and yet now so exposed merely at a moment’s glance? I cannot write of illegal detention camps, Federico. Hearts burst at borders, and they won’t let me pass. I have come, unannounced, to the shores of your lies that are closer to the truth than all of mine. These fingers, so twisted – incomplete - are dust --- May the butterflies come in and make us whole. May we die in Winter at last.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][/vc_column][/vc_row]

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