Set as the crown’s jewel in the map of India
Where the moon monopolizes
The pale green domes of a mosque
Where solemn winds blow through the mountains
Nothing but the hissing sound is heard
Where the lakes are filled with painful tears
And the earth has soaked innocent blood
Whereon the leaves instead of dews of rain
Blood droplets remain stained . . .
There was the heaven on earth.
The people are alive with essence of death
They are lost in melancholy or politics perhaps,
They strive, thrive and then survive
Amidst the indomitable violence
Let not my tears escape my eyes
Dark future beckons . . . .
Will they never reach their ecstasy?
Will no one listen to the sad songs?