Musings Of A Kashmiri Poet Poem by Zafar Iqbal

The young poet tremble, writes gore and dirge

More than, shedding tear-like, banes and sears.

He burns evening lamps, with his head in his hands

To floklore, The bullets in the body of his bossom cousin

The slack-skinned body

The veins raised body

He then speeds past the reluctant years

in autumn mists, asking leaves to fall from tall trees

Ohh No, Autumnal crop have spread further

and his aching back feels pain

The pain reminds him of the folded coffin,

The lamenting mother

His hand tremble again to write blood;
Blood; Oh No;

He is lost in the blankets of darkness.

Life slowly seeps from the wounds

He may write again tomorrow.