By Aaqib Hyder
Snow is falling
on my tortured ravine
shrouding its living
in the clothes of dead.
hugging the dead earth,
nestling the corpse
in their tender wings.
A shiny white blanket
spreads across the graveyard*
seeds of revolution.
The seeds shall turn
into robust trees
when our streams are
full of winter tears.
*The graveyard in the poem refers to a martyr’s graveyard somewhere in Occupied Kashmir.
the doves have broken the cage
to reach the holy towers of peace.
the trumpets of freedom are ready
to muffle the din of oppression and hate.
our lungs will breathe the air,
free of bitter tear gas smoke.
the downtrodden have risen to the skies,
and tyrants are begging for mercy and grace.
the boys are out in the streets,
celebrating songs of freedom and love.
I can roam fearlessly at night,
through the streets of my beloved land.
is no longer occupied
autumn has died
and spring is coming soon.
In the heart of darkness
under the silver moon
the strength of a teenager
being crushed under jackboots.
His painful cries piercing
the dense clouds of silence.
Waai Khodayo moodus!
Aaqib Hyder is from Indian Occupied Kashmir. He studies media at the University of Kashmir. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org
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