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Brothers once, beneath the same monsoon sky,
Before foreign flags touched your soil,
You drank from the same rivers,
Laughed beneath the same banyan trees,
Shared gods, grain, and ground.

But when the map was sliced by hands not yours,
When borders were inked in sorrow and salt,
A mother wept—her children pulled apart,
Not by will, but by wounds too deep to speak.

Do not let 1947 define you.
It was not faith that fractured your bond,
But politics draped in robes of fear.
The British carved a line,
And called it peace.

Kashmir is not a trophy to be won,
But a scar to be healed.
Not land to be seized,
But a soul waiting for reunion.

Brothers—why aim guns where once you shared bread?
Why trade blood for pride
When dialogue could yield gold?
Your ancestors walked the same fields,
Sang the same ragas beneath stars now dimmed by war.

Let not the ghosts of partition rule your future.
Let not religion—twisted by fire—
Be the judge of your humanity.
Look deeper. See your mother’s face
In each other’s tears.

The world watches with weary hope.
Will you rise beyond revenge?
Or will you let history repeat
Its chorus of grief?

You are not enemies—
You are echoes of the same origin.
It is time.
Time to sit at the same table.
Time to break not borders,
But bread.

Peace is not weakness—
It is the final strength.
And reconciliation,
The highest act of courage.

You were divided by history…
But you are bound by blood.
Return, brothers—not to war—
But to one another.

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