Reverting to Form: A Poem For Kashmir

Before old age we revert to form
Like the hollow man before the storm
Piling sticks before the door
Knowing that the earth’s wrath is more than lore.

And so it is with nations of men
Trying to carve out a place in hell
When all the wood has turned to flame
Like dancers before some pagan cave.

For the mother who long wept for her son
That was sent by fire to an early death
There is nothing to be lost yet much to be won
As sorrow lines her every breath.

Politicians scurry like rats on scraps of meat
Vainglory in a world replete,
When the conquered become the damned
They turn their swords on their fellow man.

Annexing through bullet and blade.
Is this the glory that was made
By a new empire built on “democracy”
Where everything including misery is fair and free?

Kashmir bleeds – her sons collapse
Under the swarm of the bullets’ attack
But an ancient spirit cannot be pierced
By cowardly men who believe they’re fierce.

Which flag do the sons hoist atop martyr’s graves
Beneath the undertow of the cavalcade?
Is it the flag of annexation
Or that stained by the sinews of frustration?

No proclamation by the pen
Can change reality bursting forth
For the world is but a struggle of men
Each one thinking God shall endorse.

Azad is nothing to contain
Nor can political tracts explain
The feeling of one who is chained
Yet in that state cannot remain.

Leaders have come and gone for centuries
But that which cannot be expunged
Are the stars that frame eternity
And cannot fall by sword nor gun.

Ksahmir bleeds for those who fall
And yet a martyr stills stands tall
When dying for his sacred land
That the liberal knave could never apprehend.

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