Rue of a woman, half-widowed.
The ordeal of a girl yearning to see her father.
The sigh from the broken soul of a Mother,
And, the mourning of a friend.
You aren’t going to escape, when you
Incur into this conflict zone.
Where blood is flowing ubiquitously.
Where skies gloom with a spark of earth underneath,
Asseverating that we cry with you, bleed with you.
Your grief is not concealed to us, thus we espouse Black attire.
My life here is fallacious, am scared if I survive through.
I See death everywhere, the blood is no more scary.
My ears are prone to the rattling gun.
My eyes don’t cry, they say the glands are dry.
My mind is befuddled, humans are huddled.
Nooses are tightened, gun powder is nebulized.
Women widowed, orphans are born.
Yes, that is the plight of a zone in conflict.
I see my life threatened, my affairs undermined.
My future jeopardized and my wealth petrified.
They say I behave abnormal, think anomalous.
Diagnose me with stress and depression.
Pessimistic mental state, illicit drug usage as they declare.
They inquire, why do I write sadism. Death and fear,
Cry and gloom, hell and fire, Darfur and Kashmir.
Why not life and love, gardens and flowers,
Mysticism and nature.
Tell them, why should I?
I have witnessed the encounter of a cripple,
that of a boy, old a decade. Thousands of such
are at the back of my mind. Snivel of that old woman
Awaiting the return of her son
has given me insomnia and sleep apnea.
Verily, I am a boy from this Conflict.
And, this is my state of affairs.
Ikram Ullah is studying Biomedical Genetics in VIT, Bengaluru. He was influenced to write poetry by 2010 revolution of Kashmir.