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...
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