No—
I did not fire the bullet.
You did.
Yet you etch My name
onto every stone that covers the dead.
You call Me cruel
as you pass the hollow-eyed child
on your way to peace summits
lined with polished speeches
and wine-soaked silence.
You ask,
Why is there suffering?
But I watch you
raise borders in the name of safety,
and bury your conscience
beneath layers of comfort and convenience.
Peace—
it is not the anthem you recite.
It is the hand you will not hold,
the bread you will not break,
the stranger you will not welcome.
You mourn the war
you helped ignite,
funded with your fear,
defended with your indifference.
I gave you hands
to cradle, not to conquer—
to stitch, not to sever—
to write love into the margins
of a divided world.
You say I am silent.
But I have spoken
in the mother’s cry,
in the child’s last breath,
in the stillness after the sirens fade.
The truth?
I never stopped speaking.
It is you
who stopped listening .
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 11:58 AM UTC
They came to us clothed in the innocence of peace,
bearing trust cupped gently in their trembling hands;
but the answer that met them was death—
not from us,
but from the shadow that haunts our valley,
the hand that cannot bear our happiness.
I cried, but my cries vanished into the mountains;
the river, swollen with sorrow, carried my pain away.
We have lived through storms for decades ,
but today the darkness swallowed even memory,
and grief moved into every home.
My homeland is broken;
not by time or weather,
but by hands that have forgotten every meaning of mercy.
Now the merciless bullets speak where saints once prayed,
and violence has drowned our inherent language of compassion.
Terror has no faith, no boundary—
its shadow poisons every land,
leaves every heart trembling.
The chinar drips with sorrow,
the wind brings only the ache of loss—blood, once sacred as prayer,
spilled more freely than water
on the ground that was once my refuge.
How can I weep when my eyes have become tearless—
when sorrow has hollowed me so completely
that even my tears have forgotten the way out.
My Kashmir, once a cradle of welcome,
now lies silent,
words are empty
and lakes reflect nothing but grief.
From the dust of my ancestors,
all I can offer is a broken prayer—
let this not be the only story the world remembers of us.
Please, give me back my paradise,
the home that has become a hell.
Give me back the valley where kindness lived,
where every heart was open,
where hope still dared to grow.
How can I forget the era
before the darkness claimed us,
when we lived with open doors
and gentle hands.
May we hold to the light that remains,
and in each other,
find the courage to choose mercy.
Let us pray we become whole again.
And in our tears—
may the earth be softened
for hope to take root once more.
Showkat shah
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 10:27 PM UTC
I asked myself “What is Maturity “?
Got the answer ..,
Maturity is not a height you climb—
it is a descent
into yourself.
It does not arrive with age,
but with stillness.
It comes when you no longer raise your voice
just to be seen,
and begin to listen
to feel whole.
It does not live in answers,
but in the questions you no longer fear.
It is the calm after the storm
you no longer name.
It is the choice not to strike
when the wound rises.
It is forgiveness—
not to forget,
but to free your own hands.
Maturity is love without possession,
truth without cruelty,
presence without pride.
You no longer chase,
you allow.
You no longer cling,
you release.
You no longer harden,
you return to softness.
And somewhere,
between surrender
and the stillness that follows,
you see clearly,
you did not grow up.
You came home.
Showkat Shah
Apr 16, 2025
Apr 16, 2025 at 12:16 PM UTC
You ask of strength—
but I say to you,
strength lies not in the sound of the blow,
but in the stillness of the hand that knows where to rest.
The razor is sharp,
but its sharpness is not meant to divide the earth—
it was shaped to move tenderly across the skin,
to separate what clings,
and leave no wound behind.
The axe is strong,
but its strength was not given to shape the face of another—
it was forged to part the stubborn wood,
to fell what has forgotten how to bow.
Each holds a purpose,
each walks in its own shadow,
and both forget themselves
when asked to do the other’s work.
So it is with us.
The heart that listens
was not made to lead with noise.
The soul that breaks ground
was not born to walk in silence.
And yet—
we envy one another,
we trade our gifts like coins,
and we wear the masks of tools
that do not fit the shape of our spirit.
But the apple tree does not question the walnut for its hardened shell,
nor does the river question the flame
for not knowing how to flow.
Each is sacred
by the truth of its design.
And when you see one
whose step is slower than yours,
whose hands tremble beneath a lighter load,
do not let pride fill your gaze.
Instead, remember:
The dust upon their feet
may carry the memory of mountains
you were never asked to climb.
We are all instruments
in the hand of the unseen.
Let the razor cut with grace.
Let the axe fall with honor.
And let your soul
be faithful to the shape
the Eternal carved into it
before you were given a name.
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 9:22 PM UTC
I spent years building myself
from what the world could see—
titles, praise, control,
all carefully held together
by the need to feel enough.
I called it strength,
but deep down,
it was fear;
fear of being forgotten,
fear of being ordinary,
fear of simply being.
Eventually, the weight became too much.
Not all at once,
just slowly—
a quiet tiredness I couldn’t explain.
So I stopped running.
I sat with the silence I once avoided.
And in that stillness,
something softer began to speak.
Not everything had to be proven.
Not every thought needed a voice.
The self I had been chasing
was already there—
just buried beneath noise.
The ego is still here.
It still rises when I feel unseen.
But now I notice it,
acknowledge it,
and let it pass.
I move with less urgency now,
and more intention.
I listen more.
I carry less.
I am no longer building a version of myself;
I am returning
to what was true all along.
Showkat Shah
Apr 6, 2025
Apr 6, 2025 at 10:13 PM UTC
The Wind Spoke Once
The wind stood still, waiting.
I thought it would pass,
but it watched me—
like a flame watches
a wick that forgot how to burn.
It moved,
not like a storm,
but like a thought
too vast for words.
“You think I’m just air,”
it said.
But I’m made of moments you missed—
before you spoke,
before you cried,
after your mistakes.”
“There was nothing to ask.“
Only understanding.
This wind had no direction;
only purpose.
It had touched prophets,
but never used its own voice.
“I carry what you lose,”
it said, almost gently.
“Not things—
but the weight
of what you keep inside.”
I stood still—
not in fear,
but in recognition.
Like a mirror
realizing it isn’t the reflection.
The wind leaned in,
touching my forehead—
as if we were one
before the world split us.
“When you’re quiet,”
it said,
“I’ll return.
And you’ll remember—
you taught me how to move.”
Showkat shah
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 5:05 AM UTC
Am I born Today!!
My life’s journey hums along,
In quiet beats, a steady song.
Little joys and aches I hide,
All part of the walk inside.
From childhood dreams to growing old,
With tales I have lived and hands I have held.
Hands that reach and hearts that care,
Trying, failing, still right there.
Storms have come and winds have roared,
But still I stand, my soul restored.
Each heartbeat sings, a simple sound,
Proof I am here, still safe and sound.
Joy and sorrow trade their turns,
Each one heals, each one burns.
This heart still hopes, these eyes still seek,
For truth beneath the sky’s soft streak.
“Am I born today?” I ask, unsure,
The question is quiet, the answer pure.
Another year, both light and loss,
Moments missed, and lines I cross.
Still in the hush between each tear,
A softer strength begins to steer.
Not all was right, not all was wrong,
Some hurt became my healing song.
So here I am, not fixed, not done,
But still beneath the rising sun.
Not reaching far beyond my hold—
Just moving forward, soft and bold.
And if you find me on this day,
Don’t ask for joy I can’t display.
But walk with me, just side by side,
And let the silence turn the tide.
I carry grief, but also grace,
And in my chest, I have carved a space
For love, for hope, for one more year—
Still here, still human, drawing near.
Showkat shah
Mar 26, 2025
Mar 26, 2025 at 2:55 AM UTC
I have spent years knocking on doors,
searching for meaning as if it were locked away,
as if the answers sat behind gates I had yet to open.
But what if there are no gates?
What if the path is beneath me,
and I have been walking on it all along?
I grip time like a rope,
as if holding tighter will make it stay,
as if the breath I take now
is promised to me in the next moment.
But nothing belongs to me,
not my name, not my past,
not even the ones I love.
Everything is passing through,
like water in my hands,
like wind in the folds of a traveling cloak.
And love—
oh, love is not waiting somewhere in the distance,
not a treasure to be found,
not a prize to be earned.
Love is already here,
in the spaces between words,
in the hands that touch without asking,
in the quiet knowing of two souls
that recognize each other beyond time.
So what else is there to do?
To walk, knowing I will never arrive.
To give, knowing nothing was mine to keep.
To love, knowing I will leave
but will never be lost.
Did the ocean ever ask
where the river has gone?
Did the sky ever mourn
the bird who no longer flies within it?
We return.
We always return.
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 10:28 PM UTC
What is Life ?
Life is the Mirror of the Soul
Life does not ask who you are—
it only reflects what you bring.
A heart full of love will see kindness,
a mind full of doubt will find walls.
The wind does not change its song,
some hear music, others hear silence.
The sun does not shine any less,
some feel warmth, others only shadow.
A restless soul will call the road unfair,
a weary heart will call the sky unkind.
To the one who walks with peace,
even sorrow holds a gentle hand,
even endings speak of new beginnings.
The world does not rise against you,
nor does it bend in your favor—
it simply reflects what lives inside.
Carry anger, and the road will be heavy.
Carry love, and even storms will guide you home.
For life is not what happens to you—
it is the way you choose to see.
Mar 17, 2025
Mar 17, 2025 at 12:10 PM UTC
Love and jealousy
She knocked one night, so soft, so light,
wrapped in silver, dressed in spite.
She smiled and said, “Let me in,
I know your heart, I know your sin.”
I let her sit, I let her stay,
she murmured doubts to drift my way.
She pointed out what wasn’t mine,
and dimmed my joys so hers could shine.
“They have more,” she sighed so sweet,
“More love, more laughter, more complete.”
She traced my fears, she fed my pain,
she tied my heart in iron chains.
But then I saw—her hands were bare,
her voice was hollow, thin as air.
She had no warmth, she had no grace,
just empty echoes, just empty space.
So I stood tall, I cleared my mind,
I left her broken words behind.
I opened windows, let in light,
and Jealousy faded into night.
And love? It stayed, so soft, so bright,
wrapped in warmth, bathed in light.
It asked for nothing, gave me all—
Jealousy knocked, but Love stood tall.
Mar 17, 2025
Mar 17, 2025 at 10:21 AM UTC