Elegy For Nālāmār Poem by Mystic Qalandar

From the soft banks of Nālāmār
I have returned—
where dawn's first breath
vanished into river-steam,
where dreams slid on the ice of light,
drifting toward the edge
of awakening.

Now, where water brushed the sky,
where clouds traced their passage,
only earth remains—
hard, wordless, still—
as if memory itself has turned to dust.
The city's unfeeling steps
cross this grave of gentleness.
The water's murmur is gone;
the hand that erased it for progress
forgot the shape of holiness.

Once, Nālāmār wound through Srinagar—
a living prayer—
between gardens and shrines,
under the arches of old bridges,
its cool fingers upon the stone.
Not a river alone, but a blessing,
a quiet thread stitching
willow-roots to sky,
teaching the city's heart to beat.

It gave the earth a tongue of patience,
the willows their bowed grace,
children a handful of wonder,
and to the tired eyes of the old,
a moment's peace in its mirror.

But memory does not die.
Beneath the silence,
the river's soul finds refuge.
Behind the dust, under the weight of years,
its song endures—
unseen, certain as truth.

And now, walking
the wounded veins of Srinagar,
I pause—
listening to the low hum of absence.
There, in the heart's deep stillness,
Nālāmār returns—
not as lament, but as a new spring
rising from within,
quiet as revelation,
holding the city steady
in a silence
not of emptiness, but of light—
sacred, eternal, alive.

—November,3,2025