One day, my Kashmir, the blood splattered all over your
body, that now trickles from every limb you own and you only hear their screams
and collect last breath of the young ones that gives their lives for and about
thee, will dry up.
One day, my Kashmir, the last of your tear’s will evaporate
your voice choked from yelling will stop pricking on thrones and that they
rammed.
One day, my Kashmir, the sons you sowed will reap and the
fervor of the saffron dawn will recede to new florets that will slowly begin to
germinate on your skin.
One day, my Kashmir, the rest of us will have had as many
bullets as you and I pray not, but slowly we all will bleed enough to neither
have saffron skin or emerald, but the fiercer shade of raging crimson inside
and outside us.
One day, my beloved, all the poison the fed you through
their policies and murders and bombings and hushed reasons will sink past your
wounds and the body made of boiling blood and iron from their missiles and
muscles of led will emerge and in a voice greater, louder, angrier, ask them,
how dare they murder his brothers.
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