Bloodstained Injustice

With the scent of your laughter,
Staining the rivers,
That run down my face,
I wish that you were just,
Allowed to be.

I see you today,
Running along the muddy banks,
Of the Jhelum,
The fertile soils,
In which your soul grew,
The fields which nurtured your spirit,
And sitting here by your side,
I witness those peaks to the east,
In a manner I never witnessed before.

With the sound of your tiny feet,
On the rooftop,
Echoing through my thoughts,
As you played with your kite,
As you wondered what it would take,
To lift you from your feet,
In your childlike dreams,
For you to gain,
Even your wildest aspirations,
The ones you painted,
As you sung in your dreams,
See,
It was all written in the gleam,
Of your eyes.

Sitting here today,
With my head,
Resting upon your mother’s knee,
I hear the stories of your youth,
The stories of a child,
Never growing old,
Always running young,
Through those fields,
In the middle of a green July,
Returning her smiles,
And restoring her peace,
Even in the harshest of storms,
You know how that Kashmiri wind can sometimes be.

Yet today,
Bhaiya,
Her tears are resting on my head,
Her pain is falling from her eyes,
Soaking my entire being,
In her despair,
In her tails of your youth,
In the moment they struck you with a bullet,
On the banks of the Jhelum,
On the coast of your adolescent dreams.

Your mother she,
Shed her blood in the Jhelum,
And searched for justice in it’s stains,
Bhaiya, today,
The pain of your mother,
Is consuming me…

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