I will never understand,
How one man’s pain,
Hurts you more than another’s.
How you can separate suffering,
With your bare hands – to suit you.
How can you ignore the tales of murdered youths,
And their tortured fathers.
How can you choose to ignore the half-widowed,
And the daughters raped.
How can you close your eyes to open wounds,
Where bullets were taken to heart.
Is the blood leaving our pain ridden souls,
not the same shade,
Are the cries emanating beyond our valleys,
Simply not as heart wrenching,
Are our children beaten to the point of death,
Not worthy of childhood,
Or is it just easier to believe,
That our children are not children – at all.
They could never be.
If our children were children,
Their blood flowing through our valleys,
Would shake you,
With power equal to the force,
Of this tyranny which enslaves us.
It would wake you – like it woke us,
In the night as our women were raped,
Murdered and left – suffering till death.
Their screams echoing in our minds,
Still fleeing from our lungs to reach you,
But never meeting open minds,
Never feeling the warmth of a tear,
They retreat, like ghosts to haunt us,
And once again I seem to have forgotten,
We Kashmiris could simply never be,
As human – as you,