THE ARRIVAL OF STRANGER

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

Withdrawn am I from storm and street, From silent towns and deserts wide— Not driven back by wind or heat, But by her gaze—undraped, defied.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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In conversation with Tagore

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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Aadil Ghulam Bhat

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