The year our country was
ambushed by the occupying
troops from the plains. The
first night of broken glass.
Exploding grenades. Eine Kleine
Nachtmusik.
Our house was in an ambulance,
by the clock tower. As soon as
you left, the sirens went off.
Only silence could have brought
you back from the dead.
When they burnt the city library,
I lost my hair lock. The
(only) souvenir from your museum
of innocence.
Then they shot down buildings,
with rockets. My love
came crashing down.
(It was a veiled declaration of war
that rehearsed preparations for a
massacre every year,
each Friday.)
I looked for your
hairpins in the rubble, digging
nails in the blood and shadows.
Your echoes had inhabited
the night. There was enough time
to lie beside you, under the dome
of rock, in death.
The dust settled, at the break of
dawn. Then ash fell
from the skies. Then the dead
of our country fell asleep.
Forever.
Omair Bhat is a poet from Kashmir. His poems have appeared in publications which include Wande Magazine, The Sunflower Collective, Kashmir Lit, and Cafe Dissensus.