Aadil Ghulam Bhat

  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...

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.

  Aadil Ghulam Bhat  Poet and Author A dramatic monologue   Ah! those days, those cursed days—when I was but a shadow,   Dancing in her light—was it light or was it darkness?   I cannot tell.   She called herself the sun, the center of it all,   And I, the orbiting moon, content to bask in her glow.   How foolish was I to believe such illusions,   To think that warmth was love, and light was life. She spoke of love, yes—often, with fervor—   Yet her words were hollow, echoing through the empty chambers of my heart.   For what is love to one who sees only herself?   What is devotion but a tool, a means to an end,   To chisel away at my being until nothing remained?   I was clay in her hands, molded to fit her desire,   Yet never enough, never whole, always lacking. Do you see how she looked at me? Or through me, perhaps?   Her eyes—cold mirrors,...

  (Aadil Ghulam Bhat) (A Dramatic Monologue) I stand alone, a monument of flesh,   Chiseled by greed, by power's coarse command,   My hands, once pure, now bathed in scarlet hue,   The blood of men who wore the same soft skin.   Do you see me now, within this mirrored gaze?   A tyrant crowned by sorrow's hollow wreath,   A king of dust, with shadows for my throne,   My breath a gale that snuffs the weaker flame.   Where once was light, I cast an endless night,   And in my eyes, the stars themselves grow dim.   I break the bonds that held us close as kin,   And forge new chains of iron, cold and sharp.   I hear their cries, yet turn a deafened ear,   For in their pain, I find my twisted peace.   I trample love beneath my heavy heel,   And let it bleed into the barren earth.   I walk this path, alone yet not alone,  ...