By: Dr. Showkat Shah
They came to us clothed in the innocence of peace,
bearing trust cupped gently in their trembling hands;
but the answer that met them was death—
not from us,
but from the shadow that haunts our valley,
the hand that cannot bear our happiness.
I cried, but my cries vanished into the mountains;
the river, swollen with sorrow, carried my pain away.
We have lived through storms for decades ,
but today the darkness swallowed even memory,
and grief moved into every home.
My homeland is broken;
not by time or weather,
but by hands that have forgotten every meaning of mercy.
Now the merciless bullets speak where saints once prayed,
and violence has drowned our inherent language of compassion.
Terror has no faith, no boundary—
its shadow poisons every land,
leaves every heart trembling.
The chinar drips with sorrow,
the wind brings only the ache of loss—
blood, once sacred as prayer,
spilled more freely than water
on the ground that was once my refuge.
How can I weep when my eyes have become tearless—
when sorrow has hollowed me so completely
that even my tears have forgotten the way out.
My Kashmir, once a cradle of welcome,
now lies silent,
words are empty
and lakes reflect nothing but grief.
From the dust of my ancestors,
all I can offer is a broken prayer—
let this not be the only story the world remembers of us.
Please, give me back my paradise,
the home that has become a hell.
Give me back the valley where kindness lived,
where every heart was open,
where hope still dared to grow.
How can I forget the era
before the darkness claimed us,
when we lived with open doors
and gentle hands.
May we hold to the light that remains,
and in each other,
find the courage to choose mercy.
Let us pray we become whole again.
And in our tears—
may the earth be softened
for hope to take root once more.
