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 celebrate pain and agony and nothing else

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?

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