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.

Her last potrait

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.

When I was but a shadow

 

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, reflecting only her own image,  

While I, a ghost, drifted in the periphery of her world.  

I waited, oh, how I waited—for a glance, a touch,  

Some sign that I existed beyond her whims.  

But all I found was emptiness, a void where my soul once thrived.

I remember the words, those sweet, poisonous words—  

Promising forever, yet delivering only today—  

A today filled with demands, with needs never mine.  

She spoke of dreams—her dreams—while mine crumbled to dust,  

Sacrificed at the altar of her insatiable hunger.  

And I, like a fool, offered them willingly,  

Believing that in giving, I might receive.

But what did I receive? Nothing but a mirror’s cold gaze—  

A reflection of her desires, her ambitions—  

While mine were swallowed whole, lost to the abyss of her ego.  

She took and took, until nothing was left to give,  

And even then, she demanded more—always more.

I see it now, clear as the daylight she claimed to bring—  

I was but a pawn in her game, a means to an end.  

She was the queen, ruler of her own kingdom,  

And I, the servant, the jester, the fool,  

Dancing to her tune, believing that in my sacrifice,  

I might find her love. But love—ah, love was never hers to give.

Now, in the silence that follows her departure,  

I am left with the shards of what once was—  

A broken mirror, reflecting a thousand fractured memories,  

Each one a reminder of the days I spent in her prison.  

But I am free now, or so I tell myself,  

Free to rebuild, to gather the pieces of my shattered self,  

And perhaps, one day, to find a love that’s true.

But until then, I carry with me the weight of those days,  

The lessons learned in the heart of darkness,  

And the scars that tell the story of my time in her prison.  

For though she is gone, her shadow lingers still—  

A reminder of the price I paid for believing in her light.

The Defiler.

 

(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,  

For specters cling like whispers to my side.  

They call me human, yet I wear the name  

As wolves wear sheep's disguise, to hunt and kill.  

I violate the sacred trust of man,  

The thread of life I tear with careless hands.  

And in the silence that my cruelty breeds,  

I find the echo of my hollow soul.  

No gods, no men can cleanse what I have stained,  

No tears can wash away the marks I've made.  

I am the dark, the void where hope has fled,  

The man who stands where humanism lies dead.