A clear spring morning,
draped with the smell of blood.
Pathways, all across
have been painted red.
How many would they kill today?
Perhaps not a million on the way.
I fear my death for no reason,
Life doesn’t promise honor either.
Daggers have stabbed our hearts,
bullets have pierced through.
Stun guns fired from short range,
killing all in family though.
We march on the streets,
with hands high above shoulders.
We are the unarmed soldiers
of an occupied nation.
I do not face the mirror,
I saw a martyr in a friend.
He lives in the memories
in soul of her mother.
Millions are on the roads,
for thousands who have been killed.
We shoulder them to graveyards,
not their convictions.
Kashmir is in news again,
but they painted it colourless.
Again we are discarded,
again we go unnoticed.
They glorify their tales, acclaim our Killers.
They called our freedom struggle, “Terrorism”.
What would end our woes?
We have genocide in waiting.
Entitle me an opinion,
Do not hijack my thoughts.
Let me talk,
