Kashmir came alive this evening. It was just a voice, yours. But as it cleaved the cool moonlight night, boat hulls were cleaving the waters of Dal Lake, O Friend.

I stilled my voice but that was not attention enough. I should have silenced my heart till you were done and heard the murmurs of blood rushing over all of Kashmir's roads, O Friend.

Who will console me when your sorrow reaches my shores? Will my voice be heard over gunfire? Give me your eyes so that I may see what you saw and then open your hands to receive my tears, O Friend.

Two young boys surface and float in my dreams, six women stand in a circle blood streaming from between their legs, dogs clawed their clothes to shreds, an old man stands mute, with a photograph of his son, so tell me how do I begin to map death here, O Friend?

The moon moves in clean arc with so much certainity, will it be able to tell as much to that young solider with a false swagger if he will live to see another morning, O Friend?

Who will answer and who will call? Green waves break and eyes wait anxiously at doors, at windows, wondering who will come back and who will be lost for ever to the darkness of this night? Lend your voice and answer them, O Friend.

Please don't become silent!

For J, who gave me the voices for this poem about 2 weeks ago.