On the streets of Kashmir,

In the midst of the quiet winter everything is queer.

The white blanket casts a spell of sleep.

over the tired, tearful, red eyes with horrors sown deep.

One can hear things in the silence.

In the winter peace you can feel the violence.

.

You can hear the cries,

Cries of mothers wailing for their sons to return.

Return from a land where no has ever returned from,

Where people have disappeared.

Where joyful spirits drown.

Leaving tormented souls to wander,

Where murderers hold the crown.

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You can see tears sliding down the winter bitten cheeks of the martyr's brother.

Falling on the rough worn out carpet,

Leaving him and his life in such a pother.

Yet setting a fire in his heart;

A fire that cant be extinguished by the snow outside,

Nor can a sea poured inside his heart douse it.

.

So how do these murderers think that a few pieces of paper will blow out the fire set by their own soldiers?

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How will they silence the cries? of the childless mothers;

the half-widows,

of those broken lives.

.

They cannot set out the fire But, I am afraid

Will it extinguish itself?

Puzzled by the world, Questioning,

Why do lies overpower truth? Why doess triumph be with the tyrants and the liars?