Aadil Ghulam Bhat

  Begin where the heart first trembled. Begin where the wind carried your name. The sky remembers who you were? Before you learned silence. The river remembers who I was? Before I learned fear. Love stands between us  Like an old witness. It says: Speak only truths! It says: Do not hide! In the shadows of your past. The land hears everything. When you touched me,  the morning broke open. Light spilled like a confession. Even the stones leaned closer, Wanting to understand  Why two bodies tremble. Do not make promises! That you cannot shepherd. Love is a creature!  That starves without honesty. Bring offerings of clarity, not the sweet poisons of flattery. Sit with me without armor. Lay down your pride,  Your weapon of choice. Let the fire judge us both. Let it burn away the lies we inherited. Love teaches by tearing. It reveals the weak beams in our bones. It demands rebuilding— brick by stubborn brick. I have walked the perimeter of your silence. I have st...

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...

  Withdrawn am I from storm and street, From silent towns and deserts wide— Not driven back by wind or heat, But by her gaze—undraped, defied. Oh, I would tear through dusk and dawn, Undo the hours in passion’s flame; For all that's pure feels lost and gone, And sanctity is not the same. She, whose brow once stilled my breath, Whose eyes held stars in river’s flow— Has robbed the night of restful depth, And dimmed the twilight's gentle glow. Each symbol once within my mind Now fades like whispers in the air. No thought remains, no peace to find, For even rest brings back despair. And in your arms, what secrets slept— Of springs that bloomed, then softly wept.

Aadil Ghulam Bhat  Poet and Author  Today, I am the shade of roses dead, Their petals bruised, now scattered on the ground. A token of the beauty once I knew, Now trampled 'neath the weight of careless feet. Once vibrant dreams, they gasp, they faint, they die, Like smoke that fades and vanishes in air. They curl into the void where once they burned. From castles high I built upon the clouds, Their walls now crumble, crumbling to dust. What I once loved slips like the sand through glass, Fading like whispers in the silent night. What’s left of me’s a heart in jagged shards, Heavy, broken, fragments of a soul. Today, I wear the crown of those long lost, A figure wrapped in shadows, deep in grief. Tomorrow stands, a faceless, silent page, Where no ink falls to mark what’s yet to come. Perhaps the sun has turned its face from me, Perhaps these shadows are my only guide. I drift, a ghost, between what was and is, A soul encased in winter’s endless frost, As cold as stone, as still...

            Aadil Ghulam Bhat               Poet & Author. (Where the mind is without fear  A nd the head is held high;  Where knowledge is free;  Where the world has not been broken up  into fragments by narrow domestic walls;) ~ Rabindranath Tagore  O h dear Tagore! the lament of the written words—this sacred art, Once a medium for profound contemplation, it has now been diminished to the triviality of emails and text messages. I can’t help, but imagine how you might have navigated this digital chaos.Perhaps you would have found yourself calling as an Instagram poet, crafting pithy 280-character gems of wisdom into condensed, bite-sized pieces perfectly suited for the fleeting attention spans of scrolling fingers. Your insightful reflections on the human condition would likely be drowned in a sea of hashtags like #LiteraryNoble and #nobleforlikes, lost amid an endless parade of selfies a...

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 O...

  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 fla...

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.

  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,...

  (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,  ...

Aadil Ghulam Bhat ( Poet and Author ) She was oasis to my desert, A sun of hope to my heart. The whispers of affection, A red whinny ink unto my pen. A freedom of a prisoner, My nightingale, a beautiful listener. A bunch of words to my poetry, A poem decorated with imagery. She was moonlight in my darkness, A balm of solace to my distress. The echoes of sweet devotion, A golden sonnet in constant motion. A liberty to my captive soul, Making broken hearts whole. She is verses in my rhyme, An art painted with over time. She was the calm before the storm, A rainbow after the rain has worn. The anchor in my stormy sea, A melody in the chaos, wild and free. The heavenly muse that fueled my art, A beating rhythm in my lonely heart. She was a sunrise after the night, A haven where everything felt right. But, now a water to flaming fire, A faulty, busted, twisted wire. A colorless resistor to my current, A cloudy fade unto my Crescent. The cut of furious and sharp knife. Fearful archangel'...

  Aadil Ghulam Bhat  (Poet and Author) The man had stolen himself. And, finally, theft of the soul. When among people, he wouldn't lie, And foliage not yet laid, there drove A selfish one to the yard, And who gazed at the world. However, in a rough manner, given that He waited patiently until he revealed his true self. A black mask to conceal his identity, He wondered whether self-importance Might resurface, to preserve its comfort, By searching for something it had forgotten, Yet we could not live without false notions. He thought, 'If I were to sell my blooming trees, My garden —the young buds and flowers, Where houses are all hearts filled with love,. I hadn't thought of them as loving birds. I doubt if I was deceived for a while. To uproot them, to ascend to heaven, And leave the slope behind, hearts all bare, Where the eye from heaven is no warmer Than the moon. I'd hate to part with them. I know if I was. Yet more, I'd hate to own My trees, except as others h...

Aadil Ghulam Bhat Poet and Author (Born on 02/04/1999) Once free, I roamed the sky, With wings that carried me high. A world of wonder and a life of bliss, No cage, no chains, no tethered kiss. But then one day, I met a man Who offered food with a gentle hand. I trusted him, for in my heart I had no fear, there was no smear. But as I sat upon his gentle palm, He locked me up in his golden cage. The cage was small, its walls were cold, My wings were clipped, and my spirit sold. I sang a song of freedom then, Of skies that held me high again. I cried and wept for what I'd lost, My innocence, my bliss, my cost. And yet I sang with patience too, For in my heart, I knew it's true, That freedom comes to those who wait, Who persevere, who don't berate. So with my voice sweet and clear, I sang the song for all to hear, Of tyranny and betrayal too, And of lost beauty, of hurting pain. I, the innocent bird, with my pitying voice, Sang the song of tyranny with no rejoice. But still, I...

  Aadil Ghulam Bhat [Poet & Novel writer]  Born on 02- 04- 1999 The grass is now no more green. And no tree can hold their leaves. The sun is now hiding in misty cold. Scenic beauty is no more on ridge. The days are now no more long. And no garden has a flowery tale. Fall has subsided the green gold . Flock singing is no more on ridge. A dry, hot, loo is now no more strong. And no Vale is singing the edenic song. The heaven has now nothing to hold Bird shrieking is no more on ridge . The morning breeze is no more fare. And no evening holds a crimson way Fall has turn'd every green to gold. Cloud dance is no more on ridge. ABOUT AUTHOR:- Aadil Ghulam Bhat, a poet, author, and novelist from Kulgam in Jammu and Kashmir, is well-known for his vivid and absorbing creative works. Bhat, a Bachelor of Science graduate of Kashmir University, writes with a great understanding of his surroundings and Kashmir's diverse cultural history. His prose weaves captivating stories that delve...

Aadil Ghulam Bhat [Poet & Novel writer] Born on 02- 04- 1999. Last Friday, through the window, Beside me was father's aging face. Pale, lined mouth, less toothed, Silver hair, once dark, uncloaked. Thoughts put away, rearview's glint, Journeyed together, ageless shimmer. Face, pale as sea sand, temporal hug, Wrinkles etched by life's gentle trace. Late winter's fourteenth moon Shone bright, was his reflecting beauty. Now feels as old as fading starlight, Crow's feet and a graceful bend, A gentle mark, seized reveries. Despite the changing tides of age, Clocks may tick and years may fly, Love still stands, love stands resolute.

Aadil Ghulam Bhat [Poet & Novels writer] Born on 02- 04 - 1999 She was oasis to my desert. A sun of hope to my heart.  The whispers of affection. A red whinny ink unto my pen. A freedom of a prisoner My nightingale, a beautiful listner. A bunch of words to my poetry. A poem decorated with imagery. She was moonlight in my darkness, A balm of solace to my distress. The echoes of sweet devotion, A golden sonnet in constant motion. A liberty to my captive soul, Making broken hearts whole. She is verses in my rhyme, An art painted with over time. She was the calm before the storm, A rainbow after the rain has worn. The anchor in my stormy sea, A melody in the chaos, wild and free. The heavenly muse that fueled my art, A beating rhythm in my lonely heart. She was a sunrise after the night, A haven where everything felt right. Now she is water to a flaming fire, A faulty, busted, twisted wire. A colourless resistor to my current,  A cloudy fade unto my Crescent, She is now "Azrae...

On the bridge of Jehlum, where memories flow, I stand by the banks  in June's gentle glow. Under the chinar tree, with its branches wide, I don my phiran, where tears can no longer hide. Oh, Kashmir, once adorned with nature's grace, Now stained by turmoil, a tragic, sorrowful chase. Your lost beauty, a lament upon my tongue, Echoing through valleys where once joy had sprung. The Jehlum, once a mirror of serenity and peace, Now reflects the pain, the struggle, the ceaseless lease. But inserted the tears and the lingering despair, Hope sprouts like wildflowers in the mountain air. For Kashmir, my beloved, I weep and yearn, Aching for the day when your beauty will return. May peace descend upon your valleys, serene and pure, And may your lost splendour, one day, be restored. Under the chinar tree, I offer my prayer, That your skies may clear, and your people repair. Through the echoes of tears, may laughter resound, And Kashmir's lost beauty, once again, be found....

Oh breeze, so metaphorical and free,  Carry my plea, oh hear my plea. By the sea, she stands alone,  Amidst the vast expanse unknown.  Her gaze fixed on the distant shore,  Yearning for what lies in store. Consonance sings a sweet serenade,  Last love letter on dreams we laid. Enjambment, a bridge of words,  For emotions to flow like birds,  From line to line, without a pause,  A journey through poetic laws. Echo undying, Verse to verse,  Forever ringing, No need to rehearse. Each step I take, draws me near,  A path of stones, guiding clear. Her heart's shore, fearless and clear. Words adorned with symbols so fine,  Red roses, passion that will forever shine. A river of heartfelt desire,  The quill's ink flows with fire.  Words spill out in endless streams,  A poet's heart, a writer's dreams. Love, a testament so true,  Consuming all like fire do. The poet's pearl, my last words to you. ©The last letter.....poem...

    Oh, how wonderful it is to be compared to an eagle, soaring through the skies with grace and power! It's almost as if I, mere mortal that I am, Possess the same majestic qualities as this king of birds. Alas, as I sit here hunched over my table of books, Pecking away at the pen like a frantic little sparrow, I can't help but feel that the comparison is slightly misplaced.  Nevertheless, I shall take comfort in the thought That at least in someone's gleaming, limped and sparkly eyes, I am as fierce and formidable as the eagle. The poem presents the contrast between the narrator's aspirations to be majestic like an eagle and the reality of their mundane life. The narrator feels inadequate as they compare themselves to the soaring bird, yet they take comfort in the idea that someone might see them as equally formidable. This contrast highlights the human tendency to aspire to greatness, yet struggle to reconcile those dreams with the limitations of reality. The poem sp...

Amidst the pattering of the rain, A dreary day, full of pain, No sight of sun, no warmth, no light, like a soul lost, in an endless night.   Each drop a reminder of a struggle, A burden, a hardship, a constant juggle, A reminder of a life so bleak, Of a future that seems so weak.   As the clouds loom overhead, A heaviness settles in like lead, The weight of worries and fears, Too much to bear, too many tears.   Each puddle, a reflection of the past, A reminder of a struggle that lasts, Like a soul trapped, in a cycle of pain, A life of loss, with nothing to gain.   Yet in the midst of all this sorrow, There's a glimmer of hope for tomorrow, Just as the rain will eventually end, So will this struggle, hardship, this trend.   And like the sun that will surely shine, A life of hope, of joy, of love and divine  Will emerge from the darkness of the past, And a future brighter than ever will be cast.     So let the rain fa...