Treasure Island

Naveed Saraf

(Baramulla)

What shall become of the hand?


What shall become of the hand?
that stretches to shroud the womb,
and strangulate the voice of a mother
into the dark streets of the mid-night sun.
What shall become of the hand?
that grows to embellish
the walls of occupation.
What shall become of the hand?
that prides on the rough nails,
that play on an innocent soul.
What shall become of the hand?
that delights in others' pain.

Not sounds, nor voice, nor the innocence
of the new born hath the charm,
to speak to the stretched hand.
Lo! the clouds have wept,
for the little children have been
Murdered and killed.
And the mother has been orphaned.
Lo! The multitude of stars,
have abandoned the earth,
for the light is torn asunder.
The plant, trees, the leaves
have gone pale.
They don't speak to us anymore,
for the children have been killed.
Their hands have been bruised.
Eye-lids stretched with a distinguishable line,
that is akin to the glimpses of wired walls.

The leaves are falling while they weep,
they cry and ask a question of the world-
What shall become of the Hand?
that prides on digging a mother’s grave,
that delights in killing the innocence at its birth.

Submitted: Sunday, May 12, 2013
Edited: Monday, September 16, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

© Naveed Saraf [19-11-2012].

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