memories come to knock at your door
only to cause pain and longings, with almost nothing to give
like feet that reach out but never get close enough
but still leave a trail on the rough terrain
I was born on the third day of the bloodshed,
wrote 'FATE' on the Kangri's smeared ashes.
For long in silence we mourned the death of innocence,
the deep cuts from the barbed wire still fresh on our flesh
you're not like those who would shake my hand
and when I turn, pump the whole clip into my back.
So when you flaunt your knives in front of my eyes,
I am at peace, a martyr to trust
and even if I die thinking about what concerns me,
I will never know who mixed the poison in my drink
as I lose my breath and merge with the painless,
the formless, regardless of who I was before
I think God saw my struggle, what's the show for?
calamities and adversities taught me to be calm
and wait for the blessing that's given to the deserving
I am still waiting, doubtful and sure.
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Kangri : Is a traditional pot filled with ash, and burning coal used by Kashmiris to warm themselves during the cold winter. It's a symbol of Kashmiris.
