| || |
"Who are you?", "Oh wounded Lady!"
Looking at her asked the stranger,
Found her hiding her clothes bloody;
"An unfortunate mother!" She marked in anger.
Moved and moved and moved she on
The stranger but could not control
Following in silence, she guessed of her as a felon
But continued she following and patrol.
Tight had gripped the night her hold
So had twisted the way to wood
The bare trees in haunt and the wines awfully bold;
In this haunted place the stranger stood.
To herself the lady murmured
in vain but! Inaudible to the stranger.
The bloody cloak in dark shimmered;
gloom in the air and an intuition of danger!
Under the bare tree of Chinar; haunted
the lady sat; on her knees,
Wept bitterly as if painfully parted;
Mourning! Out she got from her cloak; some keys?!
Assembling herself; she reached a slot,
made the gate of which was of a numbering scabbard.
With the keys, did she unlock the plot?
Blurred the stranger, "was this a grave yard?"
Entering there the lady maddened!
Manifested the plaques the graves of young!
Agonised; the lady shrieked and groaned,
Melancholies and forlorn for her "SONS" did she sung.....
Pitiable and choked, the stranger; can only compose an epic
Sorrow of this lady is beyond measures deep,
Clothed in a blooded cloak; MOTHER undoubtedly stoic;
MOTHER KASHMIR! with her sons resting in a never ending sleep...
Dhaar Mehak |
(Is a free lance writer and an undergraduate economics student)