Pashmina Does Not Speak

I wonder, them buying Pashmina in Delhi 

If they know it has been rinsed with blood!

How would they? Pashmina does not let a drop

Even if it's squeezed through the ring. 

Perhaps like TV channels it has learned

To remain silent, Pashmina does not speak.

Or if they taste the gun powder in the apples

Mixed in the soil where it was seeded.

What misery they did not recognize 

When saffron changed its fragrance,

They savour the smell of burning flesh 

Believing it pure and fresh saffron of Kashmir;

Believing as the advertisement say. 

How would we know it all, don't expect!

When we travel beyond the Himachal 

We travel a different land, and for the rest

We are mere tourist, To us Pashmina does not speak.