I heard it snowed in Kashmeer.
Only that it wasn’t just ice
But blood.
Blood that drinks blood
And thrives on it.
Just like fire that feeds on fire
And grows.
The line in between is not a line at all
Not marked with a scale
Or laid down with twigs.
You know the border with the red dots on snow.
Of course
the reds are different.
How else would you know whose red it is.
It’s a wonder all that red and white
Hasn’t become a messy pink.
It’s a wonder how fire thrives on ice
Like the bullets in the snow.
The snow hasn’t melted with all that fire.
Not yet.
The graveyard is hardly a place to die.
It’s where the dead live,
not where the living die.
