The Valley's Veins
Where mountains weep a silent tear,
And Chinar leaves turn crimson near,
A whisper rises, soft and low,
Of stories that the valleys know.
Of voices hushed, and spirits bound,
On hallowed, ancient, sacred ground,
They rise, not fueled by hate's dark flame,
But justice, whispered in each name.
The chains that bind, they yearn to break,
For futures that their children...
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