THE ASIAN INDEPENDENT UK
She wore the chura, red with dreams, still bright,
Hennaed palms cupped love in the morning light.
They came to valleys where the river sings,
To weave their views in Pahalgam’s spring.
But thunder fell, not from the sky, but men—
He lies now still; will he rise again?
His head, once proud with laughter and grace,
Now rests in sorrow on her silken face.
O Kings of hatred, what crown do you wear,
When widows bloom from joy to despair?
You speak of heaven, swords in your hand—
But turned paradise into a funeral land.
Can you not hear the children cry?
Can you not see the Jasmine die?
Spare life, if nothing else, from your fire-lit-sky.
