In crimson waves across the Jhelum,
And the lacerated muscles of stone pelting arms,
Between the pepper gas and the mighty Chinar,
There are strong roots spreading across,
Lines of Control,
Lighting the depths of this grief with hope.
This is the place where,
War drums pound against chests,
And heartbeats carry the pain,
Of an entire nation within them.
This is where the revolution is born.
This is the land where children,
Are forced to leave wombs,
Under the silence of a curfewed night,
Where the flashbacks of rape,
Still seeps through feet of snow,
Like a mother’s blood.
A place where..
Our women raise the flag of the revolution,
On villages lining mountain tops.
They sprawl them across from,
This bloodstained river bank to yours.
Because encrypted in their fingers,
The ones that still caress the maps,
Painted across photographs of the disappeared,
In the roots of the saffron fields holding mass graves,
Filled with souls that once blessed wombs,
With their presence,
You can taste it in the air,
The passion pulsating through this nation,
Readying itself to stand once again.
But in the chambers of an old heart,
Still echoes the pain of remembrance,
Of crack downs and massacres,
There is a child here,
His screams do not leave his throat,
They escape his pain ridden soul,
Desperately searching the embrace,
Of something that might just bring,
An ounce of relief.
And he writes words,
He whispers them across the terrain of revolution,
So they reach hearts who read,
In voices so different to his,
But they feel this too.
Rest your aching soul,
Against the bloodstained land,
That raises your children tonight,
In the morning we will raise fists,
To the rhythm of revolution,
And the inspiration he brings.