She is the Jhelum.

Tomorrow her tears will fall,
And like the living who lay amongst dead,
She will not flow,
Maybe her silence will shroud bodies,
And conserve breaths of the living,
between waves,
In hope that there is life,
Amongst the dead,
She cradles against her bosom.

Tomorrow you will ache,
Wondering why crimson tears,
Fall upon the tresses of dear ones,
Mourning the way history,
Marked synonymy between,
Our rivers and our martyrs.

Tomorrow looking into your beloved’s eyes,
You will question,
How the memory became permanence,
Reflected in waters so deep,
That your heart is riddled with lakes,
Mourners on each bank,
So you can taste,
The massacre still resting on your mothers lips.

Tomorrow she will wear,
The attire of the mourning,
And the shroud of the mourned.
She will be the whisper of the buried,
Between the breaths of our memory,
The voice of the bullet piercing chest,
And the silence that never came.

She will be the death count,
On the lips of the living,
The syllables caught between tears,
The corpse in our meadow,
The saffron beneath jackboots.
Because she is the Jhelum,
And she still carries the weight of our dead.

In memory of the martyrs,
Of the Gaw Kadal Massacre,
of 21st January 1990,
And the story our river carries.

May Allah grant them the highest ranks in Jannah. Aamen.