 Kashmir's unique beauty has been a constant source of inspiration for poets of successive generations at home and abroad. At home it seems to have seeped into the consciousness of poets no matter in what language of the land they seek to express themselves. The range is fascinating as indeed the landscape they seek to portray. I felt as if the message of the wings brought for a moment the desire for mobility in the minds of the unmovable. The mountain wanted to be the truant cloud of Baisak. The trees desired for once freedom from the shackles of the earth to elope with the winged music in search of the end of the sky. Oh mendicant wings, the finite dreams of this evening are broken. A wave of pathos overwhelms all. The heart of the universe rings with a vibrant note. Not here. Not here. Somewhere else. That was an evocation of Kashmir by Rabindranath Teghore. It is said that when this foremost Indian poet visited the valley, he was so captivated by the visual splendour that he sought to paint it for perpetuity through a series of verses. The most significant Urdu poet of post-independent India, Ali Sardar Jafri sang of Kashmir, thus. This land of Kashmir, a fascinating picture of heaven, a poet's delight. On its earth grow rose plants. Each branch laden with flowers. Every flower is in bloom. The Indian poet in English belongs to no specific region and that is perhaps why compared with others. His outlook is both more universal and yet focused and concentric. We used to co-exist. I, Reshma, you and all. The jaws of the sharkfish are wide open. I go on fighting like an old Santiago. I remember that the jailam used to flow with the tails of my previous birds. That the wind, having played the instrument of Tarannum on the orange tree, used to sleep in Ashikara. Oh jailam, the flower sparrows used to gather on your heavenly waters while doves used to fly about. The heavenly choir to the valley began to shake somewhat in the end years of the 20th century and this started to affect the people of Kashmir like nothing before. The unique bond of camaraderie popularly called Kashmiriyat somehow got breached. Dogri poet Padma Sajdev is renowned for his sensitive evocation of reality in a most lyrical manner. In her long poem, My Kashmir, she fondly though unhappily takes a look at the valley that has been an inseparable part of her consciousness from her very childhood. Lend me your wings, O many-hued bird. I will take a trip to Kashmir. Fly over the Pirpanchal Range, the pine trees, dressing them up with soothing bandages. Take a look at the eroding jailam banks and threads floating in the winds. The buds must have blossomed, snows must have rained, yellow flowers layered with frost, green grass firmly placed in soil. Who lives? Who died? What's the news? What do the graves tell? My Kashmir has turned into crematorium, houses have been burnt down, fear has gripped the valley. Militancy has played havoc with this remarkable spirited brotherhood. The poet does not understand the language of politics. He only understands the language of love, a language that unites rather than separates people. That was the language that the saint poets of Yor left behind for ordinary mortals to sing and emulate. But it seems all hope is still not lost. Kashmiri poet Naseem Shafi feels that even though a return to the pristine is difficult, yet it is not impossible. Hot rice died in a cloth and tea in some of our carried along to the almond orchards, or in Ramadan little girls in the yard bringing it alive with the pace of their dance. Impossible? Not really, but difficult it is. The eyes too will grow dim in the fog. The voices that called were lost long ago. Yet there in the shadows lurks a fork in the road from where someone perhaps beckons to us. Impossible? Not really, but difficult it is.