1947, the year there was drawn-
A reckless Radcliffe Line,
For there was no way to tie
The threads of odd beliefs,
I was not there but I know,
The tale of that time.
Travelling back the time, to the cold winters
On that doomed night,
Reckoning the bone-chilling and heart-numbing cries,
The night when terror was lingering
On everyone's mind.
My land was bathed in blood
And humanity was shredded apart,
Even innocent souls were not exempted
From that frantic bloodbath.
Oh, my land, it must have been painful,
To see your daughters on the platter
Of the beasts who forgot their gods that time.
Nowhere was Punjab, and there was no Lahore,
My land was turned into a human burial mound,
And my land could do nothing but cry,
Cry over the waters that died.
All those parted hands could never align,
And that mother could never again kiss her child,
I was not there but I know,
A horror tale it is, a tale of that time.
YOU ARE READING
An Ode to Melancholy
PoetryThe ink made of sky Drenches the dusty page Tales that dropped From the clouds in my head. •More Than Ever Blue •The Monsters Who Wore Human Flesh •The Tale of That Time •In Loving Memory of •Void Heart •The Wounded Child •The Fallen Fate •Unlike t...
