EMBERS VERSUS ASHES
**
Since antiquity a single-sided game
Where always one team comes victorious
Two teams namely Ashes and Embers
Where winner only wins with nothing to reimburse
It is brill with depth though it is hilarious
**
The game starts daily in winters notorious
Under the canopy of Pheran, our traditional dress
Starts in wicker encased Kangar, the fire-bowl
Except for kids no rule, anybody can enroll
Kept till the match ends close to the breast
**
All the tournament, there is some duress
At the hands of that blazing charcoal
Cruel erythema caused by the arrogant embers
That makes life so pathetic and worse
Plus the burnt clothes is the only left goal
**
In all this troll, still, it's written on the scroll
After the show sorry the victory is the claim
By the Ashes, it only appears injurious
Oh! the arrogance, you were always nefarious
You never remained humble, see what you finally became.

© KAWSAR KHALIL
Valley of Kashmir, India
**
A KANGAR (Kashmiri: کانٛگٕر , IPA: [kãːgɨr]; also known as KANGRI or KANGID or KANGIR is an earthen pot woven around with wicker filled with hot embers used by Kashmiris beneath their traditional clothing pheran to keep the chill at bay, which is also regarded as a work of art. It is normally kept inside the Pheran, the Kashmiri cloak, or inside a blanket.
**
Pheran or phiran (IPA: [pʰʲaran]; Kashmiri: پھؠرَن, is the traditional outfit for both males and females in the Kashmir Valley. The pheran consists of two gowns, one over the other. The traditional pheran extends to the feet, which was popular up to the late 19th Century C.E. WISH FOR A HERMITAGE

In this jungle of
Concrete monoliths
I only wish for a hermitage
Faraway from the people
Behind those insurmountable peaks
There only could I fetch
The lost peace of my heart
Smoldering one by one at my pace
Pieces of my existence
I wait silently under a shade
Of a lush green bush
Not on tenterhooks
To reach my destination
And I will be there someday
You have my friend
Right to ask me why?
In those magnificent edifices
Luxuries galvanize them
And under the shadows
Underdogs squeezed
In sweltering tinsheds
Dozens of dishes each time
In esthetical sense
Decorate their grandiose
Buffet tables
Am not alarmed at how they get
'Coz jealousy is an ailment
Of a rotten soul
One table of a small
So called noble family
Will suffice some dozen families
Out in the cardboard dwellings
And the leftovers
of elite dining halls
Land in the dustbins.

© KAWSAR KHALIL
Kashmir

THE LAST DAY

Commotion for many
Satisfaction, probably, for none
When the singing bird
Finished perching on the branch
Autumn had already
Spread its wings
Withered leaves and naked trees
Deciphering the language
Of seclusion and discord
The lawns had turned rusty
Sagging under its pressure
Broke the dry branch
And with it
Fell down the drowsy bird.

KAWSAR KHALIL

THE ONLY DEAD NATION

This is the only dead nation
That enjoys Allah's wrath
They believe dry winters
Potent therapy to their lands
Wanting hustle and bustle thrive
Through out the year in Bazaars
Though that's a need too
Accidents of this negligence and antithesis
Happens to happen
Against every season
Winters without precipitation and snowfall
With an ill hope that Springs bloom
And Summers cloudy, cold and full of rain
And the Fall with elephantine harvest
Richness of science and hollow reason
But they remain forever fools
Our good, great ancestors
Where better equipped with rationality
Sapiens of this wise era
Say... thank God it didn't snow at all
It is not raining in March and April
When the water bodies dry and leaves wilt
This deformed species begin to wail
Without any sorry and consideration
Upon the ethereal glow that spread on their faces
During the dry winters and now when
The wrath elongated into the Spring
Bountifulness of Summers came to halt
Weak waterbed couldn't beautify
Sun-baked canopies.
Everything around us is designed
With a divine plan
Imagine how ugly it would be
If a girl bear mustaches
Or a boy gets girly voice
So every season has its own grace
Snowy Winter and Springs raining
Hot Summer but dry Autumn
Is that divine plan
And how can a man of clear wisdom
Consider himself at solace
When everything is at odds.

© KAWSAR KHALIL

We have added Mr. Khalil's graphic design images of his poetry I a slider below along with an introduction: