Ex-cogitating Kashmir

Ex-cogitating Kashmir

Poem by Cayed Rihan

While each angry part of my soul keeps on saying,

Cursing the tyrants but still being fed,

By the same tyrants who stabbed my head,

Electing the members who cheat me everyday,

And still my tongue remains there to say,

I’m a member of National Conference or Congress,

Hardly remembering the deaths and never confess,

Raise anti-Indian slogans when it’s time to shout,

As soon as I’m tired and bored, I go to scout,

The treasure of greed, saying I was ignorant,

At the time I would understand, I shall repent.



I live in a nation where blood flows in streams,

And at a place where gunmen are part of our dreams,

I was born there where everyday I see a grave being dug,

And in an alley where I have nobody to hug,

I live like a beast that’s stabbed and then fed,

Whose eyes each night are naturally red,

After a long line of martyrs, I sit down to weep,

Some of my people mourn and some sleep,

Our children are being asked to get their schoolbags checked,

Before we reach our homes, we get the way hacked,

Where each vehicle has carried at least two-three victims,

Each fear arrives like the unpredictable whims,

I grew up in the state where each blanket has a blood-stain,

Where each place has a story and each story has a pain,

Where we memorize the names of terrorists before subject,

Where we realize every line of constitution is suspect,

And whenever I leave home, my mother has to cry,

Each day on her lips I sense a sigh,

But when I get a chance to stand and fight,

I stand with all my people and wait for the faithful night.



Kashmir has a thousand stories that can never be told,

Each story yet resonating and every line untold,

2730 unmarked graves and 2730 mothers’ laps,

Are vacant and waiting for the tower to collapse,

The tower of injustice that has reached so high,

Each lap that has become a victim, asks God why,

I never deny my mistakes; I also need to confess,

But if pond is compared with sea, the depth is so less,

How can I forget that 6-year old,

Who was left sunk in blood, who was left dead and cold,

How can I forget that old man in that image,

Shouldering his grandson in life’s last stage,

Whenever I start to pen down something, I see his face in page,

Peace to the martyrs and Salute his courage,

Still he lives with that old bed,

Keeping his grandson’s snap under his head,

Sleeps without a pillow with just one hope,

That someday his dreams will be given a rope,

He along with a thousand graves and a million eyes,

Will see Kashmir getting free and getting rid of cries,

Tyrants paying the price of each and every death,

Just that last hope encourages his breath.

Love You Kashmir…

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