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 May 7 Vianne Lior
Pouya
All alone
by the noon,
softly humming
an old tune.

Eyes that drift
toward the moon,
air is still,
a bit too cool.

No more tools,
just quiet bloom—
a soul unfolding
in its room.
She stood in the field of Violets.
A distressed lady in war.
While others charged in the battlefront,
Only I noticed her, from afar.

She was enraged, with dreadful eyes,
Murmured words I didn't hear
A cluster of sunken syllables
Rose a song too hard to bear.

Forgiveness, O Damsel of Violet
Release me from these cries
Let me sing a song so dear
For those hazel eyes.

Trust me O Wrathful maiden,
No harm was ever planned.
Yet here I stand, entranced by you,
Still spellbound where I stand.
You say my grades don’t matter.
You say, “I love you no matter what.”
Then why am I invisible?
Why do they only see the red numbers on my sheet?

You ask me, “Is everything fine?”
What do you expect me to say —
that I’m f**d up?
That I dream about leaving?
That I keep a blade in my front pocket?

You say I don’t share,
but you don’t pay attention.
I play the piano till my fingers bleed,
I scream songs that reflect me,
I even talked to you.

Maybe it’s because you liked me,
never loved me.
Maybe I’m so flawed I can’t see,
or maybe it’s both.
Maybe we’re both flawed —
we’re only human.
can you hear me?
Blind devotion, a dangerous guide,
While reason sleeps, and truths hide.
Did you see the fire ignite?
The darkness in eyes, extinguishing the light
what a day in a lost paradise
But it happens yet again.
A chip in the brain
Chips in my mouth
Chipping away normalcy
A good life, sparkling misery
Controlling world
Can't control my mind
Who's got control
Interconnected worlds
Happiness chipped away
Regrets kept underneath
Living and breathing
With buried ambitions
There is no way to find peace
The buzz in the brain is unease
How did we lose the independence
Now we cannot show any defiance.
 May 7 Vianne Lior
Ankush
Once upon a time
a father with his belt –
(with black shiny paint
and a steel which is melt)

And a son, a pen in his hand
A book by his side
A lamp blowing light
Tears in his eyes
The fear in his veins
With his wimped tiny mole

(A cry in his neck and
a gulp in his bones)

Whimp whimp strikes the ground
Wipes the tears,picks up his pen
Shakes up his head,
Gives him a cloth,
to blow up his nose

(A smile on the boy's face
The fallen tear on the page's lace
It dried his shake on hand and
moved him a pace)

Whimp, whimp, whimp – strikes again
(A posed fear on son's face)
Whimp, and he strikes again
(The clueless child, shakes with his pain )

The blats on the floor
and its black remains
The years of slaps
which slashed up cement

(He comes back..
drops his belt   )

A relief in boy's breath

The steel fallen,
relief is felt

The father with his red hands
(Blood flows out at a spot's end )
Smiles at the son

Dark is his eyes like year's repent

(A strung in his mind
He shakes only once,
As he picks up his belt)

He sits on his couch and
acts as he had a father –
with a belt-
(with its black shiny paint and
a steel which is melt.)
(this poem is Just my imagination )

A haunting reflection on the cycle of violence within a family, where a father’s painful legacy is passed down to his son. Through raw imagery and symbolic language, this poem explores the emotional scars of childhood trauma and the generational impact of abuse.
 May 7 Vianne Lior
Ayesha
Rattling; a swift, strong to-fro god of quietness
Of collective anticipation: everything lurches
From wall to wall, accumulates
In suddenly-spotlit corners. The news
Of the bombing splashed from the sky
And shook the country awake.
Sightless in confusion, we turned
To terror for comfort, and everywhere,
The crooked bells of fury
Were waking each other up.

I sank on my bed. I was shuffling
From app to app, and you
In France, were excited too. I was waiting
Only for you.
My piston-heart small against the night
Fraught with petty indecisions
Of an exhausted love, it breathed the scattered wisps of news
And sneezed, sneezed to let you through.

I was sliding the apps over each other
And always, you appeared: taut as
Sterilised steel, scorching hot
With your careless endearment.
Do you think that there will be a war?
Well, I heard they shot down some planes.
You say you will miss me, as a joke.
But I am here, incapable of humour
Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting
My eyes dim like a low-battery lamp
And the glitter of your name settles
Like dust on the floor.
The 3 am clock is awake with me
And I know I cannot afford to skip one more lecture
But 00 turns to 30 and then 40 and I think
I will just make the coffee a little bit stronger.

-

But what am I awake for?
I load, reload the news. An hour ago, for the first time,
A word, like a broken tooth, rang its metallic sound:
Home. And I shivered from the sincerity of it.
My hands are tied to the pungent hands of this land
My words are here. When I yell,
It is these broken streets that hear me.
My paltry heart is fed on its blood. Its abuse
Is indistinct from its love. This grotesque
Is the only love.
And they tell me, sympaths from far off lands: leave.

The mosques are awake and singing
I do not care for prayer or god. But I permit
The sounds of worship tease me.
I permit the thought of you instill me.
Although sweetness runs stale from disuse
I caress - caress you still before sleep.
My hatered is indistinct from this.

My - my mumble-mouth, my hesitancies
My thin laugh and my thin silence
I can afford to heed you
No more than this. I can turn, return
In stuttering strides; and you play
So beautiful, with your sharp soft face
But the night crumbles. The mosques
Have sung and knelt in prayer. The impossible
Hours pass - one after another.

-

There are questions. Will the schools open?
Will there be more attacks? Did you
Hear the fighter jets too?
Nothing ever dies but man, and nothing ever lives.
A white sun spreads its wings
And content,
I bid your absence goodnight and sleep.

-

[In the morning, I will take the little car to 160
And turn lustrous sharp corners
Because the roads will be empty].
07.05.2025
(A Song of Love, Loss, and Condemnation)

We came where the Lidder flow,
Where pine trees guard the earth below.
Pahalgam cradled us in grace,
A honeymoon wrapped in nature’s embrace.
We held each other on the mountain bend,
A love that felt like it would never end.

The air was pure, the sky so wide,
He laughed with joy, I stood by his side.
But then came thunder not from the skies—
Gunfire tore through our lives.
He fell with a whisper, his eyes still warm,
As horror bloomed where dreams were born.

Oh, although the pine still sings,
My heart can't feel a thing.
He died with his arms reaching for light,
In the meadows of Pahalgam… robbed of our right.
Twenty-six souls now sleep in snow,
Where only peace was meant to grow.
Tell me how faith became this blade—
That carves through love in a holy charade.

They came like shadows, hearts turned to stone,
No warning, no mercy, we died alone.
He wasn’t a soldier, just someone in love—
Now he lies silent beneath skies above.
Blood flows through the lush meadow’s green,
In Baisaran Valley, where peace had been.

Now the world itself breathes with grief,
And paradise weeps through every leaf.
How many must die before we say—
That no belief can justify this way?

We light our candles, the world moves on,
But love once lost is never gone.
Condemn these hands that **** and maim,
No God demands this kind of flame.
Let not one more vow be broken by hate—
Let peace rise before it’s too late.

Susanta Pattnayak
In the context of terrorist attacks in Pahalgam, India
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