The Land of Graveyards.

Poets writing about flowers and birds will keep writing about a world without borders.

Writers who saw the unpleasant truth will keep pondering the borders we drew within ourselves.

Dreamers keep on dreaming about a world where the children don't have to pay the price for the deeds of their parents.

As they keep writing and pondering and dreaming,

War mongers will not stop mongering for more wars.

Terrorisers will not stop terrorising.

The drummers and those who lit the firecrackers keep on dancing to the cries of mothers who stand beside their dead children, who paid the price.

And Kashmir,

The land of graveyards.

Where the corpses of humans nourish the land, making the Kashmiri Iris bloom brighter and Green Apples taste sweeter.

Where the smoke-filled lungs of Jammu heaved with the sound 'Azadi' that muffled by the thudding of military boots.

This Kashmir will always be the child who paid the price for Her parents' deed.

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