Graveyard of Dead Numbers


Come here
Here, see
This is Mr 754 shot dead in head

This, here, is Jinab 836
His legs were never found
She is 639. Her body was mutilated

Like a dead dove in the dark forest
Yesterday, a mother came
“Show me my son”

I took her there, at 643,
A new born was supposedly buried there
Here are graves of every age

From new born babies to 165 years old
Sometime we receive only some parts of a body
They are there, under the hanging tree

We never knew their names
But we have numerous of them
Now if your interview is over

I have to dig graves for now and future
As now is dead too
So is dear future!




A Little Cherubic Girl
With A Doll in Her Lap
And The Old Gary Granny
With Teary Blurry Eyes
Both Waiting
For their Loved Ones to Come
From The Ages
In The Dark
In The Sun…

Dear Father,
In This Fiery Burning Summer
You’re trembling
You’re cold
Who Scorched Your Blooming Bud?
Who Killed Your Only Hope?

How Can We Forget
Raining Bloods of Our Martyred Sons
Broken Limbs, Fractured Bones of Aged Ones
Raped Daughters and Abused Mothers
Brunt Villages and Blasted Homes
The New Eid Dress
Of That Alluring Child
With The Doll in Her Lap
Is In the Ashes of Her Sweet Home
Torn, Ragged, Shabby and Seedy!

We water the Divine Blood-
From The Snowy Paths
From The Yellow Chinar Leafs
From The Burning Streets and Vacuum Roads
But We Can’t and We Won’t
Kill The Hope From Our Souls…
To Breathe In The emancipated Vale!

We Moved the Mountains
And We Can Climb More
We Sacrifice, And
Yes, We Can Immolate More
Because The Fire of Our Soul
Its Fuel Is Resistance
Its Elixir Is Hope…
To Breathe In The emancipated Vale!


About the Poet

Muhammad Nadeem


Hailing from Batamaloo in central Kashmir’s Srinagar district, Muhammad Nadeem has done his graduation in English and Psychology from Amar Singh College, Srinagar. He is currently pursuing MFA in Creative Writing.