My Kashmir Burns (Part 3)

Azadi bleeds from every razored lip And then dries up near the throat. The call for prayers is not heard Fear of death deserts mosques. It’s the land where death has proven inability of faith. I see one of those Maisuma boys. Which were taken under the blanket of night. His face was burnt but I could recognize his voice. “Don’t tell my mother I have died. No Jinazah for me, as I am in shattered pieces. Tell my brother to stay inside. A red dot on his forehead might protect his pride. Tell my sister to be brave. Grooms visit unexpected wearing garlands of guns. Tell them not my blood has turned into red rubies. Valueless Worth no cost.” My memory runs through its history. I taken back to khansaib-bun I still have memoirs of that sight. My uncle. An advocate is shot. Dragged and ragged. His bravery is raped. Now lying in the mud. A big roar fills my ears. I wake up. It’s my alarm clock. It’s raining in here. It’s bleeding there. I sip warm ginger tea. And my Kashmir burns.