I Live In That Paradise -Nida Nawaz (Poetry And The Kashmir Conflict) Poem by Nida Nawaz

I Live in That Paradise - Nida Nawaz
(Poetry on Kashmir conflict)

I live in that paradise
Where to become a suspectIs to die
Where stepping out of one's homeIs to disappear
Where every head held highIs severed
At the command of tyrants

I live in that paradise
Where in the fertile soil
No longer bloom saffron buds
But landmines are sown
Where snow-clad mountains
Turn into blood-coloured laments
Where the streams draw their flow
From the tears of the people
Where fields keep shrinking
As military camps keep spreading
Where roads, in the blink of an eye
Turn crimson
And eyes are rendered red and blind
By clouds of tear gas

I live in that paradise
Where looking falsehood in the eyeMeans losing one's own eyes
Where walking with one's head held highIs to invite death
Where taking a step forward
Is to strike an axe upon one's own feet
And where speaking in favour of truthMeans
Being silenced forever

I live in that paradise
Where mothers, when sending their children out
Never forget to hang identity cardsAround their necks
Though they may forget
Lunch boxes or schoolbags
Not for the sake of identification
But from the fear that should the worst happen
Their bodies may at least find their way home

I live in that paradise
Over whose borders
For years have circled
Kites, crows, and vultures
A place where the festival
Of human skeletons
Knows no end

I live in that paradise
Where life is lived on others' terms
And only death
May be chosen on one's own
Where the marketplaces
Buzz with fear
And faces are painted
With the faded colours of counterfeit smiles

I live in that paradise
Where in the census offices
The lists of half-widows
And half-mothers
Keep growing
As do the numbers
Of the disappeared

I live in that paradise
Where mourning chirps upon faces
Chains clasp the feet
Terrors beat within hearts
Dreams remain trapped in eyes
And astonishment sprouts
At the fingertips

I live in that paradise
Where to be a childIs to be afraid
To be youngIs to die
To be a womanIs to be violated
And to be oldIs to become
The graveyardOf one's own children

I live in that hell
Which for centuries
Has endured
The bitter and false accusation
Of being a paradise.