Trickles of purity at the source,
Meet our crimson grace,
Carrying love from one brother to the next,
From this sisters, to yours,
Fragile-strong tales of a broken youth,
Mesmerize tired eyes.
Your skies taught me shades of blue,
Contrasting starkly against the greys of my youth,
The black of your nights reflected in my eyes,
And our light became one,
Because in-between those peaks of home,
Our heart’s collided for the very first time,
Now our struggles are one.
And our need to resist is beating strong,
Pulsating through our veins,
I know that you hear it too,
Because every time they send you up in flames,
My heart feels the warmth of the ground around you,
And waiting for you to set your roots again, I cry.
But tears are not warm when our hearts are on fire,
They settle on the peaks like snow,
Fading only when the heat engulfs them whole in the night.
Even stars fizzle out, but you shine through my days sustaining us,
Like the water that runs through us keeping us alive in one another,
What could I ever amount to without – you,
Or the crimson stones that sunk to the depths of your eyes,
Or the painful bitter embrace called loss,
That pulsates through us like the need to resist,
Lighting the fire which burns our spirits,
Wounds us to bring – strength.
Your eyes are holding back tears that are exerting force,
Equal to the gravitational pull keeping us in orbit,
And your eyes they grew old-young,
And mine grew wise-fast,
Even their brown is carrying hues of red,
We cannot escape the crimson,
Carried to us across the Jhelum.
My brother, I hear you.
Our eyes reflect the same black of night,
Our heart’s pump the same crimson water across our valleys,
Our hands too rise with your stones because,
My eyes cry stone like tears from a warm and broken heart,
Adding to the seas our crimson will eventually reach.
My brother, I hear you.
Standing on crimson banks one day together,
Raising our hands in victory,
We will cry, my brother your crimson is no longer alien to me.
The tears are metaphors and the rain has always been symbolic,
These waters rise and wash us away,
Leaving purified footprints of our souls behind,
The idea that you can hear me through this verse,
Is a blessing embedded in this curse,
And my brother your fist is raised,
The crimson hue in our eyes is fluorescing,
So I know that you hear me too.
The motherland made us all poets.