The Grand Sale Poem by Showkat Ahmad Wani

Kashmir, O Vanished Crown
Kashmir! No more art thou the earth's fair crown,
But sink'st to depths where blindest shadows dwell.
Thy rivers, once the veins of paradise,
Now thirst beneath the tyrant's callous tread.
Thy breath is choked, thy meadows burn to dust, 5
Thy name, once pure, is stained by silent grief.

I mourn thy fading grace, thy sullied sky,
Thy splendor sold to hands that seek thy fall.

The Price of the Earth
Not only land is sold, but every inch—
Each yard where nameless sleepers lie in dust. 10
Their hearts still echo in the hollow earth,
Their breath still clings to roots that drink their tears.
Yet none remain to heed their voiceless cry,
For silence walks upon their buried dreams.

The Forsaken Winds
Not only air is sold, but winds that once 15
Caressed the brow of Harmukh's frozen peaks
Now wander lost, their whispers turned to wails.
Their breath no longer stirs the waiting fields,
Nor brings the scent of spring to barren souls.

The wind that bore the musk of mountain blooms 20
Now drifts unheard through desolate ravines,
A beggar at the door of vanished time.

The Weeping Sky
Not only sky is sold, but clouds that weep
For those who wept—and none remain to feel 25
The sorrow in their long-forgotten rain.
Once, hills would lift the golden flood to heaven,
Now even sun sinks low in wordless grief.

Maran's proud heights stand watch with hollow eyes,
Their peaks still crowned in white, yet shrouded deep 30
In mist that knows the weight of nameless loss.

The Death of Spring
Not only spring is sold, but first the breath
That woke the almond bloom from winter's grave.
The frost once yielded to the dawn's embrace,
Yet now the light itself dissolves in gray. 35

The pigeon turns in circles lost in air,
The nightingale now sings a broken song.
The crow beats heavy drums of weary doom,
And all the voices once in rapture raised
Now echo hollow through the empty trees. 40

The Ashes of Summer
Not only summer's sold, but with it fire—
That once in passion burned, now smokes in grief.
The streets, once filled with laughter, choke on dust,
And ghosts of toil rise silent from the stone.

Their broken hands still grasp at vanished light, 45
The rivers, once the cradle of delight,
Now bear the weight of drowned and dying days.
The swan that glided white through silver waves
Now folds its wings within the breathless heat.

The Burning Autumn
Not only autumn's sold, but every leaf— 50
A faded ember on the dying bough.
The chinar burns in silence, branch by branch,
Its crimson whispers scattered through the dust.

And all the voices once beneath its shade
Are dust themselves—mere echoes in the wind. 55
A Pandit kneels to trace his fate in ash,
But fate has fled, and all the world is still.

The swallow, lost between the earth and sky,
Now hesitates to wing toward vanished shores,
And owls that once kept watch in solemn thought 60
Now stir the dust of memory—and fade.

The Dying Light
An aged man ascends the brittle boughs,
His trembling hands betray the weight of years.
The blade divides the branches, dry and bare,
To feed a fire that wavers in the dusk. 65

Its fleeting warmth clings to his hollow chest,
A final ember swallowed by the night.
His breath, now frail, dissolves in winter's hush,
And time drifts past, unheeding of his name.

The Vanishing Words
The students bend within the silent halls, 70
Their fingers trace the ghosts of vanished thoughts.
They spill their ink in hurried, faithless lines,
Yet meaning fades like mist upon the glass.

The books once swelled with whispers of the past,
Now stare with vacant eyes and hollow spines. 75
No echoes stir the air where wisdom wept,
No voices rise to pierce the darkening void.

The Last Game
The cricketers ignite the frozen ground,
Their youth still fierce, their dreams untempered steel.
They strike the air as though to cleave the wind, 80
Yet all dissolves within the winter's breath.

The field, once bright with battle-cries of hope,
Now lies in silence, buried in the frost.
Their footsteps, once engraved in yielding earth,
Are swept away by time's unyielding tide. 85

The Bargain of the Heart
Two lovers, bound by cards and fleeting words,
Entwine their fates in measured, hollow hands.
Their love, no more than echoes bought and sold,
Fades like a rose pressed thin within a page.

What passion bows to artifice and lies, 90
But love that kneels before a gilded cage?
Their sighs, now mere transactions of the heart,
Fall weightless on the withered winds of fate.

The Grip of Winter
Not only winter's breath is sold for gold,
But trembling sighs that rise from weary lips.
A shivering mouse retreats in frozen shade, 95
Its feet like stone upon the lifeless ground.

An old man walks with numb and aching steps,
His brittle hands outstretched for warmth and cloth.
His withered feet, now veined with icy threads,
Seek leather walls to shield them from the cold. 100

An old woman coughs—not born of fleeting joy,
But from the weight of years upon her chest.
Beneath the hum of wires she folds herself,
And sleeps within the shroud of fleeting warmth.

The world is white, yet not with purity, 105
For fog descends, a silent cloak of grief.
The sky casts pebbles made of swirling frost,
That leap and dance upon the roof of fate.

As swallows taunt the lumbering elephant,
The wind now mocks the houses built on dust. 110

The Cost of Silence
Not only forests fall to hands of men,
But every tree, its shade, its trembling leaves.
The gentle wind that stirred the restless boughs
Now sings its requiem to a vanished world.

The woodpecker, in rhythmic, measured taps, 115
Now carves its grief upon a hollow land.
Like drums that called the weary souls to hear,
Its echoes wane within the deafened air.

The tiger burns beneath the ashen sky,
The monkey swings through silence void of song. 120
The serpent coils along the barren stone,
The bear now walks as though the earth were fire.

The mild and harmless deer still lifts its voice,
A pearl of longing lost in shifting dust.
Its call, once met with kindred, listening hearts, 125
Now falls unheard in fields of silent time.

The Selling of the Land
Not only mountains bend to men's desires,
But rivers weep where once they learned to dance.
Their silver paths, once carved by patient time,
Now shudder in the grip of nameless hands. 130

The walnut's bark once kissed the lips of youth,
Now fades beneath the stain of greed and dust.
The cedar, where the beasts of old once met,
Now bows before the weight of ruthless men.

And in the groves where lovers' whispers bloomed, 135
The trees now stand as ghosts of former grace.
The gardens, once a poet's silent dream,
Now breathe in sorrow's hush of falling leaves.

The fountains spill their tears of crystal loss,
Their waters cold as sorrow's hollow touch. 140
The tulip fields, in orderly array,
Now wear the robes of grief's mute elegance.

The meadows bend beneath the silent weight,
Their petals lost to echoes of the past.
The orchards hold their breath in trembling fear, 145
Their apples burn like embers in the dusk.

The Echoes of the Past
Not only rivers bend to coin and trade,
But waters pure, where once the sick were healed.
The Dal, once clear as uncorrupted thought,
Now drinks the taint of man's unyielding hand. 150

The lotus fades within the poisoned tide,
The mirrored sky now clouds with silent grief.
The sacred shrines, where hope once knelt to pray,
Now tremble in the grasp of sorrow's palm.

The air is thick with whispers lost to time, 155
As mothers tie their prayers to rusted gates.
The threads, once bright with longing and belief,
Now fray beneath the weight of silent cries.

The End of Dreams
Not only houses, built with hands of love,
But chambers filled with echoes of the past. 160
The dining halls, where laughter once took flight,
Now serve the meals of sorrow and regret.

The walls, once lined with verses framed in gold,
Now whisper words that time has left to fade.
The kitchens, where the scent of life once rose, 165
Now breathe the smoke of dreams reduced to ash.

The poets, once the keepers of the truth,
Now sell their words for hollow, fleeting praise.
Their pens, once steeped in ink of burning fire,
Now trace the shape of silence in the dust. 170

The orchard shade, where children used to dance,
Now holds the weight of voices stilled by time.
The chinar's flame, once bright with autumn's song,
Now flickers in the wind of nameless fate.

And in the night, where silent deals are made, 175
The land is sold in whispers veiled in ink.
The cruel pen moves with mockery and might,
And seals the fate of all that once had breathed.
(Jan,2016)