Lines in the Dust

In the summer heat of '47's cry, A line was drawn beneath the sky. Not ink, but blood, not words, but flame— Two nations born, but none the same. Fields once golden, shared with grace, Now whispered names in a stranger’s place. Neighbors turned to fleeing feet, Homes abandoned, hearts incomplete. The Ganga wept, the Indus roared, As trains of silence onward soared. One carried dreams, the other pain, Each bound by history's heavy chain. Mothers clutched their children tight, As dusk replaced the promise of light. The earth was split, but souls entwined, By love, by loss, by ties maligned. Yet even as the borders grew, In every heart, an ember flew— Of songs once sung in shared embrace, Of temples, mosques, a common space. Now time walks slow through wounds unhealed, Through stories still too deep to yield. But in the hush of evening's breath, Hope blooms quietly out of death. May memory teach what lines erase, That peace begins with face to face. Not walls, but bridges must we chart— For no one owns a human heart.