Burnt grass

Maj Vijai Singh Mankotia (retd)

Never had it rained
as much as now,
the earth was soaked
but not mellow to plough,
the leaves had braved
the heat somehow,
yet the grass was burnt
and withered now.

Once there was singing,
dancing and fun,
the skies were blue
and mild the sun,
now the tree is dry
and barren its bough,
the grass is burnt
and withered now.

Fear stalks the Valley,
happiness has fled,
young boys are killed
and innocent girls bled,
there is outrage and horror,
separatist-triggered riots and row,
the grass is burnt
and withered now.

Wailing and weeping
can be heard across the Valley,
stones, gunfire and blasts
rock every street and alley,
in the valley famed for its beauty
there is tenseness on every brow,
the grass is burnt
and withered now.

The singers of the Valley
are silent and mute,
quiet is the santoor
and mournful the flute,
where music filled young hearts
and in solemnity they took their vows,
the grass is burnt
and withered now.

Some have lived
to tell their tale,
countless have died
to no avail,
the soldier prays and longs
to return home somehow,
but alas, the grass is burnt
and withered now.

How many must fall,
how many still die,
the curse of fanaticism
has left millions to cry,
it is time for us to act
and take a firm vow,
not to let the grass burn
or wither now.

Let us rid this Valley
of the merchants of death,
of provocateurs and rabble-rouser
traitors to their last breath,
we need patriots and visionaries
with crusaders in tow,
never for the grass to be burnt
or ever wither now.