You can still see Her
Torn Dupatta waving
Like a holy thread
By Amira Kadal bridge, where
She jumped off
And you can still hear His cry
In the iron railings of that bridge
Whenever buses move
Rattling like the cries of Azaadi.
Or were they pushed off
At gun points by armed people?
Jehlum knows all our secrets.
We Kashmiris have our name
Written in water but
Like Sohni.
We all travel in our pitchers.
If we don't drown in Jehlum
It will drown us.
At the back of our minds
We always hear water dripping,
Drowning us.
Somewhere
Our children drown
In the waters of their blood.
Somewhere our Poet
Will be drowning in the
Waters of ink.
Who pushes us in and out of our veins?
Whatever we do
At some point Chenab will always
Kiss Jehlum.
However we die, it will always
Be by water. We always drown.
We always die as lovers.
