The Tawi May Remain

The Tawi still flows through the heart of the plain,

Bahu still watches through sunshine and rain.

The Chenab still sings to the mountains afar,

Yet fewer now know who their children are.

The scent of kaladi, the sweetness of ambal,

The dhol of the Kud, the old wedding songs' call.

The tales of Baba Jitto, Mian Dido's name,

Once lived in our blood, not merely in fame.

The Dogri of grandmothers, warm and sincere,

Now fades with each passing and unspoken year.

The words still survive, but their voices grow small,

Like echoes that linger in an empty hall.

For culture is more than a festival's flame,

More than a fort or a district's name.

It lives in our language, our stories, our way,

And dies a little when they're forgotten each day.

The Tawi may remain,

The mountains may remain.

The fairs and the temples may remain,

Yet it will never remain the same.

Tashi Sharma

Jammu

Duty (Farz)

In their eyes, too, some dreams reside,

They once had desires, kept deep inside.

Bit by bit, it all shattered away,

From their loved ones, they were torn away.

Take their sorrows as if they were your own,

Let seeds of joy in their lives be sown.

Become the crutch on which they can lean,

For this is your duty now, clear and seen.

They will bless you for the rest of your days,

Whenever you look back at your ways.

The dark times will eventually pass by,

Do good, and peace will simplify.

Their darkness, too, will soon retreat,

“Tript, ‘’ light will make their life complete.

Rakesh Sharma “Tript’’

Rajpura Mangotrian, Jammu

THE PEDESTAL

The velvet is discarded when the masses wear the thread,

And gold is called a bauble once the commoner is fed.

What exever hands embrace at last is stripped of all its grace,

For status dies the moment it becomes a common place

The world looks on with heavy lids and chooses not to see,

The chains of hidden labor that keep their kingdoms free.

They turn their eyes away from wounds that bleed upon the floor,

And close the blinds to muffle out the crying at the door.

For status is a shadow game of distance and of pride,

Where dignity is measured by the things we seek to hide.

They buy a manufactured grace and call it inner worth,

To justify the quiet theft of every right on earth.

A coin can build a pedestal but cannot buy a soul,

Yet we accept the broken world and call the fragment whole.

We watch the cycle spin and turn, and never question why

A brother is made invisible beneath the open sky.

Nandu