After the rain, the sun shines bright. The sky becomes blue and opens the doors of heaven. The whiteness of clouds appear like a crown on the mountain tops. Some strains of whiteness appear like the ship sailing in the sea of blueness.
The bright light glitters the grass and lamina of leaves reflect the freedom of freshness and vigor. The eyes hide the story of rain and enjoy the rhymes of sun. The heart wants to roam in the open fields to see the horizon.
Farmers go out after the happiness of rain to see the life in soil. A smile is placed of the sloped roofs when the novel light shines the remain of rain. They have already played their music, now is the time for them to glare bright. The story continues after the rain.
O tyrants! We will rise above the size of your tyrannical wall to see your great fall
You owe what you can never repay Your suppression tore the pages of happiness We dreamt of listening the nightingale in the exquisite evening But we heard only the cries from the ailing souls The rivers no more feel the same Our ears have left to listen to their melody The apples are plucked by heavy hearts Which feel the separation like a fish without sea
Everything of us can die, but not the hope We have to and we will stand Your days are like the drying river Whose bottom will crack under the scorching sun Our hopes are its rays that will burn your pride
Even if I choose to remain quiet My emotions ignites the voice within I can’t help my hands to rest They want to write the plight of my soul Now, I don’t introduce my name to the people I simply say them from where I belong And I am alive by the grace of God
My conscious have become insomniac It keeps rattling with the stories of my valley I know, Kashmir is burning I keep searching ashes in my dreams But I find soil drenched in tears My soul curses these tyrants and their tyranny I break when I imagine a mother Who tells her son to wake up from the sleep of death she knows, tomorrow there would no sun for her son Because these tyrants have slaughtered him to death
Stories of Autumn have faded deep in winter Now we see seasons changing in a day Either bloody or dry Imprisioned inside the bricks of our own Afraid to look out of the window Because weak glass pans can’t save you Only God can listen To the imprisioned hearts inside imprisioned homes