through the mosques chained in agony poured quotidian by broken devotees, we row our only boat, the only boat left in Kashmir. floods have swept through every desert, bringing respite to whom? i play 102.6 FM— a MOURNFUL voice takes each name so romantically, i might fall again each name is dead.
postcards at the back, are grasping for air and eyes that lighten the burden, words scar them with. each Saint has one, one from each voyager who lost her hope amidst tyranny. tyranny, descendants preached. the Saint autocracy, got bad-blood somewhere?
the oarsman read a letter, poor soul jumped in the waters, says he wants to elope with the floods. says he'll die and will be remembered as a Saint, foolish soul.
° ° ° " Saints have left the grievance and redressal system and are now looking forward to betray their vintage solitude" the postcards call in sun and with the first arrival of wind, reduce themselves to ashes. to only be immersed in the floods. —102.6 says Goodnight
'Vasl' 'Unification' and other Sufi frauds, calligraphically painted on each postcard, i guess to console the lonely Saint? our poor rower, another Saint lost to drunk mysticism?
the oarsman comes on the deck again says the afterlife's a joke, " too much piety " and off we row to the end of the flood waters that drain at the dawn of eternity, singing our own hymns, —which are basically " less piety, more poetry "