–Written By Prapti Sharma
BA LLB (Hons.) USLLS
The moonlit rays from the silvery plate,
Of the pendant throws some numbers on;
The towering wall at the border of state,
Three – Seven – zero, so on.
The starry child looks upon,
The scarred warrior in armour plate;
Broken, harried, lied to,
With a gifted pendant round his nape.
“Oh Kaashmir! My favourite child!
You’re true heaven on this barren Earth;
We fight for you, and you alone,
Don’t mind our costly, bejeweled clothes.”
“Oh Kaashmir! My lost son,
They’ve stolen you from me for long;
Take this pebble and hit on them,
We’ll come for you soon along.”
The pebble felt quite heavy in,
The tiny hands of the little one;
Burning hot lava and coal,
And hit the army as bloodied stones.
The clock showed the nearing end;
In the nick of time the eyes were gone,
With answering pellets in forced defence.
The numbers shone from the pendant untamed;
Three – seven – zero, so on,
Brighter than ever, like extinguishing flames.
“Oh Kaashmir! Our misled child,
We come here to down the walls;
Discard the pendant strangling you,
It’s a ticking bomb, to overhaul!
“Oh Kaashmir! Our precious crown,
Drop the stones, let’s end the brawl;
Let us cradle you in arms,
It’s safe here, let’s clear the pall.”
The discarded pendant blasts the wall;
The numbers shredded, ripped to thread,
Three – seven – zero, so on.