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.