Aadil Ghulam Bhat
Poet and Author
I see them in the streets,
Hands raised not in harmony but in war,
Calling it freedom—
Yet binding themselves to old chains in new forms,
Waving banners stitched with borrowed words.
The voices rise, shrill and sharp,
But the echo returns hollow.
What is it they seek?
Not balance, not equality—
But a throne made of the ashes of men,
Proclaiming it justice, as if vengeance wears a crown.
Feminism—once a flame in the dark,
Clear as the dawn, with purpose stark,
Now chanted by those who wield it high,
Not as a torch, but as a sword.
They cut down all who dare stand,
For how dare a man share the air they breathe?
Do they know what they destroy?
The bridge they set aflame
Leads back to the same barren land,
Where hatred wears the mask of liberation,
And the chains—so polished, so proud—
Are worn by choice, dressed in slogans.
And I—
I am but a quiet voice in the crowd,
Speaking of shadows and illusions.
But truth, forgotten, lingers in the dust
Of the burned bridges, broken ideals,
And crowns made of empty words.
Let them sing their songs of freedom,
While building walls with every note—
As if oppression could be swapped,
As if power has only one hand.
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