TeaAfter the Morning Genocide in the morning, we remembered the laughter that disappeared in the mid-hwa. The children searched for the faces that would not return, the mothers dreamed of voices that were stolen. And yet, men who conspiracy to war draw their maps in silence, survived by Welling. For me this is not just sorrow, but the death of meaning. Certainly, they died without any reason. And we live without any reason.
This is not just the dead who suffer. There is also pain with fracture memories and empty hands. Mothers bend clothes that will never be worn, and the father set an additional plate that should soon take them away. They thought we would forget but we remember. We remember that the small shoes left at the door, the songs half-incomplete, ate half. We remember the laughter that disappeared in the middle-hurry, goodbye that they never thought were the last. Our loss is not only of life, but of time, continuity, while our political leaders speak in cold numbers, distort the truth with euphemism. Killing innocents without any argument is a very pulse of existence, an obstruction of the death of the meaning.
In the middle of such a tragedy, the ghost words of our world’s growing disintegration come to my mind: “Things are separated; the center cannot catch; This collapse is not some abstract vision – this is the reality. It is a blood -soaked roads, which is left behind, the empty locks, hearts are scattered in a moment. The heart is now spread like a lifetime. The silence of the dead between the ghostly truth becomes.
Growing toll
From Gaza’s markets to the green fields of Pahalgam, once a frequent cities turned into debris, villages were hollowed out of struggle, the toll of human life rises-and so deeply, and so deeply Isaac Rosenberg dump dead man in his poem by Rosenberg: “
The dust of violence chokes the entire generations and eradicates human dignity, such as the world is poisoned with the debris of struggle and political greed. Violence is not an explosion today; It is a serious, stable and tireless.
The violence we are seeing today, it shatters both living and dead, not only tore the body, but also has a lot of structure of meaning. Extreme livelihood that once tied us to hope, faith and community barren All this says – “A pile of broken images, where the sun beats” – defying a landscape and landscape of destruction, disappointment, dried and destruction, belief that nothing can ever happen again. “These are pieces that I do against my ruins,” Eliot at the end of its barren land asked to return the great works of unmarried monuments of civilization, literature and art that maintain human life.
In fact, what is from the heart is that children have not only inherited the trauma of loss, but the trauma of abandonment is being emphasized in a world where security is a lie and justice, where small hands reach the missing hands, and only get air. There is no myth left to guide them, there is no story to create an understanding of this cruelty, some toys or books or their writing tables. They find the favorite drawer in the shelter once. They grow up in a world without meaning, only in the echoed world of war.
More than anything, it is the pain of Amrita Pritam that echoes in my emptiness, because she reduces violence that eats away in human existence clothes: “Aj Akhan Waris Shah Nu” – Today I call Waris Shah,/ I get up from your grave,/ I speak from my pages,/ I see the pain of Punjab once again.” His words not only mourn in one area, but also the loss of the holy, the death of a culture, and the disappearance of the stories that were once in meaning. Without them, we are lost in a desert of memory and sorrow.
Nevertheless, in the midst of all this, there reduces a defective, pain – refuses to erase the dead. While he made widows and orphans, we sing and pray. While he created the cemetery, we exclude the gardens from tears. Our hope is not a naive surrender to luck, but a rebellion against the absence of meaning. Even in front of heavy grief, people who choose to reconstruct and remember. Hope we have everything.
In the memory of WH Auden in the memory of WB Yets, he takes this hope amidst the disillusionment of the modern world after the loss of a great poet: “He became his fan./ Now he is dead. Now the ghost of his words still bother us.” The death of the poet in the world of Auden is not just the death of one man; This is the death of a voice that helped to make an understanding of anarchy, the voice that tried to weave the myth back into the dust of history. But that voice has gone, and we are left for ourselves in the dark, where art and poetry live, to strengthen and strengthen the sometimes living spirit of man, their undivided songs that sew their words at every step. We are the ones that remain and in our broken hearts, dead still remain.
shelleywalia@gmail.com
Published – May 11, 2025 04:35 AM IST