THE LAWS OF LOVE ARE WRITTEN IN BREATH

 

Begin where the heart first trembled.

Begin where the wind carried your name.

The sky remembers who you were?

Before you learned silence.

The river remembers who I was?

Before I learned fear.

Love stands between us 

Like an old witness.

It says: Speak only truths!

It says: Do not hide!

In the shadows of your past.

The land hears everything.

When you touched me, 

the morning broke open.

Light spilled like a confession.

Even the stones leaned closer,

Wanting to understand 

Why two bodies tremble.

Do not make promises!

That you cannot shepherd.

Love is a creature! 

That starves without honesty.

Bring offerings of clarity,

not the sweet poisons of flattery.

Sit with me without armor.

Lay down your pride, 

Your weapon of choice.

Let the fire judge us both.

Let it burn away the lies we inherited.

Love teaches by tearing.

It reveals the weak beams in our bones.

It demands rebuilding—

brick by stubborn brick.

I have walked the perimeter of your silence.

I have stood where your fears sleep.

I have listened to the thunder,

Living in your chest,

Asking for shelter.

We are not strangers wandering 

Towards a temporary warmth.

We are two ancestral winds 

Meeting at a mountain pass.

We collide.

We reshape.

Let the old wounds speak.

Let the old ghosts be heard.

Love does not banish them—

it names them and keeps moving.

When morning returns,

may it find us still choosing,

still reaching,

still human enough to stay.

And the laws of love are written.

Do you hear the walls bleed

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 quiet bruises—

Their crimson cloaks camouflaged,

Hidden in the myth of construction.

These aren’t walls—

They are weary witnesses,

To wars the world won’t name,

To peace talks in twisted tongues,

To revolts drowned in diplomat’s tea.

The ceiling does not collapse.

It holds. It bears heartbreak like chandeliers

Cradle dust—ornate, ignored,

Always looming above our heads.

This house is a heart—

Walled, wounded, and waiting.

Its bones are battlefields of breath.

Its silence, a soldier.

Its whispers, weapons.

The ghosts are not gone.

They are archived here.

In folds of faded curtains,

In fractures of frozen frames,

In the scent of saffron and smoke.

I have heard curfews sing lullabies.

I have seen frost kissed by nameless marchers.

While children count coffins like sheep.

I’ve kissed the floor, frostbitten,

That remembers more names than monuments.

Do you hear the walls bleed?

Do you hear the soft, silent scream—

The suffocating cry of a house

That once had a homeland?

IN THE WAKE OF HER GAZE

 

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.

. The Wild Beauty of Lost Time

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 as nameless graves.

In conversation with Tagore

 

          Aadil Ghulam Bhat 

             Poet & Author.

(Where the mind is without fear And 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 

Oh 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 and meticulously arranged smoothie bowls." Your profound musings on the human spirit would likely have been accompanied by hashtags like #nobleforliterature and #nobleleurate , lost within endless selfies and smoothie bowls.

Can you picture it? 

You, in your flowing robes, trying to get the perfect angle for a poetic selfie, only to have your train of thought derailed by an urgent notification about a viral TikTok dance challenge. Instead of exploring the nuances of existence, you’d be learning choreography to boost your follower count.

“Likes” would replace genuine admiration, and your once-stirring verses would compete with cute cats and epic fails. 

Alas, the times have changed, and I find myself writing to you, not with reverence (for that is far too outdated a concept), but with a heart full of sarcasm and a mind eager to discuss the dire state of literature. 

After all, who reads anymore? 

Books have become nothing more than decorative pieces in the backdrop of Zoom calls, online pdf's, YouTube summary, and audiobook podcasts — mere props for intellectual posturing. You were fortunate enough to live in a time when people read for enlightenment. Today, we read captions that barely skim the surface of thought, often punctuated by emojis that convey more than entire sentences.

Poetry, as it stands, has devolved into the art of rhyming “love” with “above,” while profound metaphors are reserved for the kind of greeting cards that people toss aside after a brief chuckle. 

Imagine your exquisite verses being distilled into an Instagram story, complete with a filter that makes everything look more profound than it truly is. 

What would you say? 

“Here’s my existential crisis, but make it aesthetic”? 

Remember how you wrote "Gitanjali", a harmony of reflections on the divine and human suffering? 

Now, let’s consider what would happen if you attempted to pitch that masterpiece to a modern publisher. “Too niche,” they’d say, tapping away on their laptops. “Can we add a vampire love triangle or perhaps a dystopian twist?” 

They might suggest a side character who’s a werewolf for added drama, while your work would be relegated to a subsection of a subsection on a discount e-book platform, nestled somewhere between self-help guides and novels that should never have seen the light of day.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen! 

You once shared the depths of your soul with the world, and now I imagine you would be arguing with a social media manager about the optimal time to post your verses for maximum engagement. 

“Should I schedule it for 3 PM on a Wednesday, or is that too late in the week for existential dread?” 

But fear not, my dear Tagore, for I, too, am a poet. My version of success has been redefined; it now consists of amassing a few followers who like my verses on Instagram. Instead of striving to connect with the cosmos, we’ve shifted our focus to ensuring our lines resonate with an algorithm, hoping to hit that elusive sweet spot that will make our words trend. 

As I scroll through feeds filled with thoughts that could be whispered in a crowded room, I can't help but feel a mixture of despair and dark humor. The future of poetry shines brightly, as bright as the blue light emitted from the screens on which it is being mindlessly scrolled past. Who needs the mystique of moonlit nights when we can have the thrill of watching a 15-second clip of someone dubbing a funny clip of politicians while sipping overpriced coffee?

Yet, I still cling to the belief that, buried somewhere beneath the layers of hashtags and trending topics, there is a yearning for the kind of depth you championed. Perhaps the essence of poetry hasn’t entirely vanished; it’s just waiting to be rediscovered, camouflaged within the noise of the digital age. But, until that moment arrives, I remain here, pen in hand, crafting verses that echo into the void, hoping someone, somewhere, will pause in their scrolling to ponder the profound over the pedestrian.

Yours in complete and utter despair for the fate of literature.

Yours truly

 ~Aadil Ghulam Bhat

The Misandry

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

Of the burned bridges, broken ideals,

And crowns made of empty words.

Let them sing their songs of freedom,

While building walls with every note—

As if oppression could be swapped,

As if power has only one hand.

Of war and greed.

 

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 flames of your ambition.  

The rivers, once pure, now flow with the fiery red  

Of the blood of those who dared to dream of peace.  

Mothers weep for sons they will never see again,  

Their tears mingling with the ashes of their homes.  

All for the sake of your empire, your insatiable hunger for control.  

Do you not see the madness in it? The utter, consuming madness?

But I know the truth— and i am aware,

War is not born of necessity, nor of justice.  

It is born of greed, of the darkest desires  

That lie hidden in the hearts of men.  

You wage your wars for power, for wealth,  

And for the fleeting thrill of domination.  

And in doing so, you condemn countless souls to a fate worse than death.

And yet, I wonder—will it ever end? Will there come a day  

When man is no longer enslaved by his own desires?  

When the curse of war is lifted,  

And the earth is no longer stained with the blood of the innocent?  

Or are we doomed to repeat this cycle, over and over,  

Until there is nothing left to destroy?

I do not know. But I will not be silent.  

I will speak out against this madness,  

Against the greed that drives men to war.  

For I have seen the cost of your ambitions,  

And it is a price too high to pay.  

War is no jest—it is a curse that consumes,  

A relentless scourge that must be shattered, yes—  

If we are to harbor any hope of peace.

So, go on—play your games, wage your wars.  

But know this: there will come a day when the weight of your sins will crush you,  

When the cries of the innocent will rise up  

And drown out your hollow victories.  

And on that day, you will know the true cost of war—  

The curse of destruction that you have unleashed upon the world.