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Her last potrait

By





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.

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