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Do you hear the walls bleed

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Aadil Ghulam Bhat  Poet and Author   Do you hear the walls bleed at night? Do you hear them weep in whispered wails, In midnight murmurs no man dares read, Their tired tales tucked beneath paint— Beneath the smog of propaganda? I have seen the silence scream. I have seen laughter die in daylight. I have seen light snuffed by sorrow, By eyes too tired to wonder. I have seen. I have seen— Pillows swallowing sobs like mourners, Doors that forgot the art of welcome, Ceilings sagging under secrets, Windows blinking away the bullets, As though war were only weather. The walls—they flinch in fright. They remember what we bury. They remember how bullets bloom, How joy jolts and dies on entry, How peace parades in camouflage. They wear wounds beneath wallpaper, Tremble in the tapestries of time. I asked the door, “How many left Barefoot, shadows stretched past dawn?” It did not answer—but it groaned. Every crack is a confession. Every nail, a narrative unnamed. Even the bricks wear qui...
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IN THE WAKE OF HER GAZE

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  Withdrawn am I from storm and street, From silent towns and deserts wide— Not driven back by wind or heat, But by her gaze—undraped, defied. Oh, I would tear through dusk and dawn, Undo the hours in passion’s flame; For all that's pure feels lost and gone, And sanctity is not the same. She, whose brow once stilled my breath, Whose eyes held stars in river’s flow— Has robbed the night of restful depth, And dimmed the twilight's gentle glow. Each symbol once within my mind Now fades like whispers in the air. No thought remains, no peace to find, For even rest brings back despair. And in your arms, what secrets slept— Of springs that bloomed, then softly wept.
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. The Wild Beauty of Lost Time

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Aadil Ghulam Bhat  Poet and Author  Today, I am the shade of roses dead, Their petals bruised, now scattered on the ground. A token of the beauty once I knew, Now trampled 'neath the weight of careless feet. Once vibrant dreams, they gasp, they faint, they die, Like smoke that fades and vanishes in air. They curl into the void where once they burned. From castles high I built upon the clouds, Their walls now crumble, crumbling to dust. What I once loved slips like the sand through glass, Fading like whispers in the silent night. What’s left of me’s a heart in jagged shards, Heavy, broken, fragments of a soul. Today, I wear the crown of those long lost, A figure wrapped in shadows, deep in grief. Tomorrow stands, a faceless, silent page, Where no ink falls to mark what’s yet to come. Perhaps the sun has turned its face from me, Perhaps these shadows are my only guide. I drift, a ghost, between what was and is, A soul encased in winter’s endless frost, As cold as stone, as still...
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In conversation with Tagore

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            Aadil Ghulam Bhat               Poet & Author. (Where the mind is without fear  A nd the head is held high;  Where knowledge is free;  Where the world has not been broken up  into fragments by narrow domestic walls;) ~ Rabindranath Tagore  O h dear Tagore! the lament of the written words—this sacred art, Once a medium for profound contemplation, it has now been diminished to the triviality of emails and text messages. I can’t help, but imagine how you might have navigated this digital chaos.Perhaps you would have found yourself calling as an Instagram poet, crafting pithy 280-character gems of wisdom into condensed, bite-sized pieces perfectly suited for the fleeting attention spans of scrolling fingers. Your insightful reflections on the human condition would likely be drowned in a sea of hashtags like #LiteraryNoble and #nobleforlikes, lost amid an endless parade of selfies a...
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The Misandry

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Aadil Ghulam Bhat  Poet and Author  I see them in the streets, Hands raised not in harmony but in war, Calling it freedom— Yet binding themselves to old chains in new forms, Waving banners stitched with borrowed words. The voices rise, shrill and sharp, But the echo returns hollow. What is it they seek? Not balance, not equality— But a throne made of the ashes of men, Proclaiming it justice, as if vengeance wears a crown. Feminism—once a flame in the dark, Clear as the dawn, with purpose stark, Now chanted by those who wield it high, Not as a torch, but as a sword. They cut down all who dare stand, For how dare a man share the air they breathe? Do they know what they destroy? The bridge they set aflame Leads back to the same barren land, Where hatred wears the mask of liberation, And the chains—so polished, so proud— Are worn by choice, dressed in slogans. And I— I am but a quiet voice in the crowd, Speaking of shadows and illusions. But truth, forgotten, lingers in the dust O...
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Of war and greed.

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  Aadil Ghulam Bhat. Poet and Author   You speak of war as if it were some noble notion,   A game played by the fearless and fierce.   But I tell you now, war is no game—it is a grievous curse,   A blight that blackens the very soul of mankind.   You who sit in your chambers, drawing lines on maps,   Moving pieces as though they were mere tokens in your hands—   Do you know what it is you have wrought? Look to Qudus, where the ancient olive groves,   Symbols of peace, now severed and scarred,   Their roots soaked in the sorrow of the innocent.   Can you hear it? The cries of children echoing through the night,   Their dreams shattered by the relentless thunder of bombs.   And for what? For land? For power?   For the greed that festers in your hearts like a plague? And what of Kashmir? A land of Sufi and river valleys,   Now consumed by the cruel fla...
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Her last potrait

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Aadil Ghulam Bhat  (Poet and Author)  It is the night that ruined all, Pity, I, the victim—not for fear of missing out, But for the curfewed nights I bear, Where thundered smoke and shells kissed the air, And fear unraveled itself, thread by thread. She whispered, “Love, take my scarf,” Oh, dear lady, with red-stained hands, Blood waits in the creases, Henna once danced on her palms, Each line a promise of tomorrow. But nights grow long, and the ink Stamped my heart with her silent sorrow. Her last portrait, eyes rimmed in blood, Lips cut by the edges of a cruel world, She held a picture of mine—a relic, In her trembling hands, As if to stitch the fragments of our days. But time, oh time, you are a thief, Leaving only shadows in her wake. And I, a mourner in this darkened hour, Sing her song, the one she left unsung, In a world that’s lost its dawn.
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