Two thousand meters above the Arabian Sea,
nestled in rocky terrains robed in fire and ice,
sleeps heaven and hell, intertwined,
dipped in the seething Fahrenheit of noon chai, Kashmir.
If the gospels of gods are true,
perhaps this is truly where they dwell —
watching over heaven, hell,
and all that lies between.
Or perhaps the between
was the gospel all along.
Maybe the truth of it all lies in Kashmir,
at the crossroads of heaven and hell,
for they are but the same;
the only difference ever was lived perspective.
One’s heaven is another’s hell.
Where one sees picturesque frames,
the other sees undead graves;
crimson staining white.
And the gods, tired of mortal judgments,
let their blind faiths decide what name to call.
For every life is a Kashmir of its own —
torn between faith and fire,
between wanting peace
and needing proof it ever existed.
Heaven and hell were never places;
they were ways of life but.
And the in-between was always ours to burn.
Between god and man lies a mirror,
cracked enough to show both clearly.
And I, a witness of borrowed skies,
stand where prayers dissolve into smoke.
The ambitious mountain peaks whisper mercy,
but my epidermis is too human to hold it all.
If this is heaven, it hurts too much.
If this is hell, it’s beautiful enough to stay.
No comments:
Post a Comment