Plants are green ,the sky is blue
Our brain is a cell ,which we all know .

Science, maths and history are out of one’s caliber
For who would remember the death of the ruler ?

Every morning the sun grows, every night the moon shines
We breathe ,give and take ,we live and let live too .

Reading books or fairy tales is the children best theory ,
Who could have ever imagined that the little boy would become ‘THE SHAKESPEARE’:

Writing 154 sonnets and so many plays
One gets bonkers listening to the dead prodigy ,

Not only he was the father of tragedy ,
But he was the owner of the romance factory .

Leaves appear the palm of the hand to many
While to Wordsworth of English nature was God’s glory .

I am not telling any lie nor any wrong explanation
its written in his poems the one called daffodils .

Be it Shakespeare or Wordsworth , they had the fountain of words in them
neither they were original ,nor ordinary they were just a piece of simple prodigy .

But i am neither the poets of fall, nor the lover of nature
Neither do i have an experience in tragedy ,nor i have a lover of romance,

Still i wrote this song as it would be called by many ,
For i got no talent but simple the craze for words .

This is my story this is my life,
I am no literate or no bibliophile ,

I am neither Shakespeare nor Wordsworth ,
I am just a life , an ordinary but still i write !

Story from beneathe

snow4I was made of blue mountains, I was made of blue and white rivers
Alpine trees could seduce the tourists
I was famous for the crown ,

I was overwhelmed ,i was jovial
I was on the cloud 9 ,
the black swans were far from me
But that was time I was made to feed the heartless materialistic people in field ,

I am no poet, I am no singer ,
I can’t chant slogans I can’t breathe
For my life is now on edge
Either ways I am bound to meet a fall ,

Sometimes I am lively , sometimes I am haughty Both the times my blood is juvenile
I was crafted for the only title that said ‘if there is a paradise on earth it is this it is this , but it seems I am now the real KASHMIR ,

Poets of the fall who entitled me with this would have been honest if only people would have loved me
But they left me with blood ,dead ,rivers ,fake trees and still want freedom for me ,

Hypocrisy ruled me ,and is still,
I am no stand for me I am muted
I don’t find myself rhyming
For I have lost the tune of the rhythm ,

My brothers are being martyred
And sisters are being killed
I ask this question out very loud
For I was just another child named KASHMIR ,

What fault is on me that I am being slaughtered
I sigh as I keep my pen down for my words are left unheard even by a mere deaf
I still want to live , don’t murder me for you will go to hell jail ,

I still want to breathe don’t stop my breathes for punishment is tyranny ,
I want to be called as ‘jaanat -e kashmir –
For I have blood flowing down the streams the rivers are dead for eternity !