Aadil Ghulam Bhat Poet and Author Do you hear the walls bleed at night? Do you hear them weep in whispered wails, In midnight murmurs no man dares read, Their tired tales tucked beneath paint— Beneath the smog of propaganda? I have seen the silence scream. I have seen laughter die in daylight. I have seen light snuffed by sorrow, By eyes too tired to wonder. I have seen. I have seen— Pillows swallowing sobs like mourners, Doors that forgot the art of welcome, Ceilings sagging under secrets, Windows blinking away the bullets, As though war were only weather. The walls—they flinch in fright. They remember what we bury. They remember how bullets bloom, How joy jolts and dies on entry, How peace parades in camouflage. They wear wounds beneath wallpaper, Tremble in the tapestries of time. I asked the door, “How many left Barefoot, shadows stretched past dawn?” It did not answer—but it groaned. Every crack is a confession. Every nail, a narrative unnamed. Even the bricks wear qui...