the colour of mourning
for afzal guru/kashmir
maybe you can tell me the colour of mourning,
on this day when the hangman's gallows
outnumber the branches of trees that no longer bloom
even with forgotten sorrows,
on this day when the blood of shaheeds runs more abundantly
than snow melted rivers
thawing in the first warmth of spring,
on this day when the sound of military gunfire and batons meeting bones
carries more clearly
than the bulbul’s morning song,
on this day when laughter abandons children
who can no longer afford to be young,
on this day when the land weeps for the people
whose ashes mix with its soil
as they die defending it.
maybe you can colour me the scent of freedom,
ringing in the tones of swaying trees
on those far away hillsides
that have never questioned the need for azadi,
smelling like wet earth and new sprouting growth
re-emerging from ancient seeds
planted firmly in ground made fertile
by feet dancing to the familiar rhythm of resistance,
and ghazals about love
that can never be contained by chains.