In the middle of the night, I hear some whisperings.
In the cold night, some footsteps sink into the powdery snow.
The red snow falls slowly and the soft talks in the muddy houses become softer.
The roads are slippery and the candlelights are exhausted.
The icicles are clinging from the thatched roofs and the small birds are chirping slowly.
Death is dancing on the roads while life is gone away.
The cold has reached the marrow of my breast.
The embers in the Kangri are no more glowing.
The owls are hooting on the tall trees.
All the veins are frozen and the temperature is going down with each passing moment.
The informers are looking for a prey and the traitors are wearing the pseudo-nationalistic attires.
A rumour is in the air that the locality will be decimated.
Wolves are running here and there in search of the injured rebels.
The smell of fresh blood has caught the attention of the hounds.
A mother is beating her chest to mitigate her son’s pain.
She is swallowing a mound of poison and her hand is full of embers
But her son wants some ash from his beloved Kashmir.
Forces are yelling at the unarmed people in the houses to come bare feet and assemble in a graveyard.
A rebel is to be torn into innumerable pieces in front of the hapless mob.
The red snow falls swiftly and the mother falls too.
In the middle of the night, I hear some whisperings.
