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By Zubair Javaid
Thorns were pasted, dyed with red blood, reshaped into a flower– that’s me
Freezing in scorching sun, dying out of thirst by the bank of sea- that’s me
A hopeless pen with ashy ink, jotting down hopeful words- that’s me
Blood ridden finger, scribbling down words on human bones– that’s me
Piercing my veins, watering the flowers with blood and savouring the smell of blood red roses– that’s me
Scribbling down her name with the bullet on the muzzle of gun- that’s me
Trees felicitating my words with shedding leaves, sky with ashy snowflakes and our so-called savours with bullets- that’s me
Gifting my beloved, the sight of my wounds, the decorated grenades, the necklace made up of bullets and my blood torn Pheran– that’s me
Over her delicate dry hands, scribbling down Freedom slogans with nails, and bedecking the muzzle of gun with beloved’s henna– that’s me
In the chilly nights of Chilly Kalan- under the shade of chinar leaning by its stem with guns like babies in my lap, and whispering freedom slogans with ice frozen lips to the hopeless falling snow- that’s me
The brightest of our days, darker than the darkest of their nights, with Lalteen in woods, its petroleum smell blending with hopeless air, yet eyes glued on the light emitting moth, reminding me of our siezed light- that’s me
Calm and quiet, the long separated lovers of my eye lashes, meet in glee, sleeping with peace in our graveyards and getting haunted by their flower gardens in dreams!- that’s me
The trees- with stems perforated with bullets, the nests like our houses deserted, birds exiled for chirping the freedom sounds! Their feathers like our hopes ripped apart- unable to fly, dying on land, yet scribbling down freedom slogans with their beaks on soil. Deepening those words on soil with the muzzle of gun- that’s me
The poets and artists, scribbling down words and images with stones and blood on walls in caves, Their poems as they say, tortured and torched, the alphabets rugged and erased with the muzzle of guns, the rhythm of their poems choked with the out-sounding grenades! The alphabets, the lines and stanzas mourning the death of their poets! The brushes of artists, the pens of poets exiled and trounced in jails- yet their life and ink as it is squeezed on land reforms into freedom slogans! The poets with their pens snatched and papers burnt, now write their freedom poems with the guns held like pens in their hands with the ink of bullets over bodies of tyrants as papers!
Blood torn and bruised in a land of poets with guns, visiting and writing poems over the soil of my beloved’s grave with my blood ridden fingers– that’s me