Cashmere, It is.

Snowy hills, posh green,
Cashmere, it is.
Paradise we call it!
Ah! How can they not see?
What it heralds in its heart
Bullets tearing it apart,
Pepper chokes in its lungs.
There is a blood line that froze,
Slitting, Killing & what not?
Disappeared & Disappearing.
Tufail, wamick, Sameer, Burhan
Zubair, Inayat, Zahid, Bilal
Adil, Imtiyaz, Arif, Aaqib…
And many more.
Leaving behind wailing
Half Mothers & Half Windows.
Even our snowmen have
blots of blood to show.
Evening air smells of rust,
Brother,
Fill this hookah this night
Till I burn to death once more.
Like Parwana strumming
Not afraid of flame.
But do you know?
The saffron grows
A little less.
Tell them;
Paradise has turned sour.

Khawaja Musadiq For Beyond Sanity Publishing