All Prose Is Sedition

The autumn is here,
mercilessly ripping apart the heart of summer
exuding long-brewed melancholy from it.
The air is heavy, laden with unread elegies,
smelling of the smoke of burnt tears.
What the tulips of summer conceal beneath them,
the berserk palid leaves of Chinar
in autumn manifest-
Grief is a constant companion here.

Zabarwan, shriveled and bruised by the coils
of concertina around its neck, looks resignedly
over an over-age, museless Dal
being frequently gangraped
by hyper-aroused visitor Shikaras
squirting sterile normalcy on her face.