By Dr. Bilal Ahmad Bhat for TheMONdaily
In valleys brushed by cedar’s hand,
Where rivers chant across the land,
Where orchards bloom in soft perfume,
Now lingers grief beneath the gloom.
They whisper “peace,” a crafted guise,
Yet sorrow lingers in the skies.
With painted smiles and headlines neat,
They hide the blood beneath their feet.
Gulmarg’s winds once danced with mirth,
Now mourn the cracks across this earth.
The trails that welcomed eager feet,
Now echo loss where hope would meet.
What heartless hand, what blinded spite,
Would strike the stars that brought us light?
The guests who came with dreams so pure,
Faced horror no soul should endure.
A silent war with no parade,
Where innocence is left to fade.
No flags, no drums, just muffled cries,
Beneath the world’s indifferent skies.
O sacred land of whispered prayer,
Of mystic breath and mountain air,
Your soul has bruises none can see,
Your wounds bleed through eternity.
Snowflakes fall like ghostly ash,
As memories into sorrow crash.
No justice walks these crimson trails,
No truth behind the press’s veils.
This act—a wound on humankind,
A shame that sears collective mind.
When children grieve and tourists fall,
The silence screams, it damns us all.
I raise my voice not wrapped in fear,
But with resolve, both sharp and clear.
This terror dressed in normal tone,
Shall not be left to die alone.
To kin who lost a cherished face,
I send a prayer, I leave my place—
To speak of what the world may shun,
That justice may not come undone.
To leaders draped in scripted peace,
Your hollow words will not appease.
Let not your comfort mute this pain,
Let not false calm become the chain.
Real peace is born when truth is free,
When pain is heard, and all can see.
No play of masks, no stolen grace—
Just light restored in every place.
So, write no lies upon this land,
Where grief still grips a mother’s hand.
Let history roar, not bow to shame—
This is not silence. This has a name.
