Can you hear it?

Listen. Can you hear it? Not the mountains singing— but the crack of gunfire, ripping through the prayers of innocent Hindus. Today, the wolves wore human faces. Today, the land drank blood, soaking the grass, the stones, the roots— deeper than any rain could wash away, darker than any night could swallow. Another scar— carved deep into Kashmir’s aching heart. Another mother’s scream— louder than bombs, rising higher than rockets, splitting the heavens apart. A scream that says: "My child’s blood will not be forgotten." O land of gods, how many rivers must turn red before the world listens? How many cradles must fall silent before justice wakes up? But hear this— We are not ashes. We are flame. We are not graves. We are the unbroken cry of the living. We rise— with memory sharper than swords, with faith stronger than fear. We rise— not just to mourn, but to remember, to reclaim, to rebuild. Listen carefully— The land is not silent. The blood is not silent. And we— we will never be silent again.