A collection of poetry that found life in my fingertips this evening.


When the bullets pierce flesh on the front line,
It will be my poetry that drips from wounds,
Onto the ground that raised us.
Crimson words will whisper ,
“Hope hope hope.. is on her way”,
Into the ear of a warrior because,
This land is our warrior,
And you and I, are her sword.

I dream that crimson words will one day write,
Justice against us as open wounds are romanticised,
Under the cover of nightfall.
The moonlight will heal us

Poetry seeps from the wounds,
Your apathy carved into our children’s arteries.
“We resist..” “We resist…”
Pulsates through their severed veins.

And we write because this is where,
The first heart beat of the revolution will flutter,
Between my palm – and his.
Children of the land.

But until then I will keep the intifada of the valley,
Settled in the tresses of hair that I tie into knots,
Beneath my hijab so one day he will find himself there.
And Moonlight will cast the shadow of our freedom,
Across the jackboots of the oppressor,
As he flees under the cover of night.

One day revolutionary thoughts will blossom,
Over cups of nun chai each morning,
As our wide eyed children learn history,
From our eyes and the books that we wrote.
Because revolution is not shackled,
To armed rebellions or literature.
It is a cross between the two,
That our hands will draw.

We will be the resilient determined strength,
And the selfless sacrifice that turns our children into warriors,
Because they will be the children whose restless hands,
And rebellious hearts will never turn their souls away,
From the quest for justice.

They will be the children who grew,
From the love that lines,
The undersides of uprisings,
And the roots of rebellions.
Children of the people.


We will scrawl promises in love notes that read
“I will echo back always…”
“..Until home becomes a song of freedom”
In the heart of the war.
Because every revolutionary is in love with the struggle,
That lines the veins of their lands.
And those veins run through us like,
We are the land.
We carry the Jhelum within us,
Becoming the mountains she traverses.
So home, exile and Diaspora,
All echo back the pain resonating within the valleys.
Because they are the spaces between us.


There is nothing poetic about a mother’s blood,
Seeping through the soil of the mountains,
Nothing poetic about mass graves and rape.

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