Lynchings in Kashmir

Separated from local headlines
By space, time and
A genocide,
I wonder why 'lynch'
Is such an ugly word.
Perhaps it's because it
snaps with a wetness in your mouth,
a motion brought
to a sudden, sickening stop
Like stepping into a puddle
Or a face.

Once upon a time,
My mother tells me,
Lotuses used to bloom in the
bracken mud of the Dal
Before they were uprooted
And their roots cooked wazul, in
red gravy, and served
Upon silver spoons of rice
To the children whose fathers
Hung mocking garlands of marigold
(like yellow stars)
On the doors of their fleeing neighbours.
Now
The Dal knows only mud
And we shall all live
Unhappily ever after.

One might call this karma, but
There is none in the Valley -
ideas
(like gods)
need believers
in order to be potent.

...

This poet, on the other hand,
Is secular rationalist -
He calls it
The potential energy
of violence.