You tread in stoic calm
amongst the wild Japonica.
Like Wordsworth’s reaper at harvest.
You toil amongst mid spring blossoms
in your valley…your Kashmir.
Along with the lump in your throat,
you have a tale to tell…but won’t.
The bullets you’ve heard…
the lilies dappled with crimson, you’ve seen.
History for others…
blood in rain.
And as your mountain goats bleat,
you usher them on.
Zoon, they call you
-the silent shepherdess …
enigmatic, orphaned, young, widow of pain.
Many bombs have exploded…
Many minds have been driven insane.
And when your namesake,
on the great mountain side…
bathes you in its light at night
your mind eclipses to another time.
Of how green was your valley
and the Tulips that were seen
in yours and Wahid’s dreams.
His boyish charm…his bearded chin.
And when the Nikaah was planned
and the Ruksat was done in a short span of time.
Two eventful days and two happening nights
of passionate love you made.
Under open skies… on hill sides..
with the moon as your secret friend…
and below the valley so green.
the call of the Mujahadeen.
A kiss on the forehead…
Gun slung on his shoulder…
And if the waters of the Dal are still and stained
They run deep…
Hidden within is a tale of not so long ago
When flowers blossomed and cattle grazed
And before the henna on palms dried…guns blazed.