The long brooding nights in Kashmir,
With insomniac desolate men,
And players of the game of blood,
Dissolutely piling up wealth in the dark nights.

The long brooding nights in Kashmir,
Replay the folk memories of bloodshed,
And the players of the game of blood,
Masquerade and pretend,
To be the men of God.

The long brooding nights in Kashmir,
The men’s obsession with the blood continues,
Women with a queer feeling of being watched,
Every longer minute of the night.

The long brooding nights in Kashmir,
Passing as slow as a sloth,
With Satan sniggering in the darkness,
Stuns the children and makes them numb,
The mother,
Drenched in sweat,
Cajoles the child,
With a cry of despair,
Exasperated though, the child dies into dreams again.

The long brooding nights in Kashmir,
Sends the men into chambers of death,
Sends them into a narrow gorge,
Where hungry wolves howl,
Where the hum of the devil,
Echoes the steep sides of the gorge.

The long brooding nights in Kashmir,
Decorated with lies all around,
With adumbrate reports of the cause of death,
The death of an unknown,
The death of an innocent,
The death of an anonymous.

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