In the cold night, stars talk in whispers and murmurs,
talk of wounded autumns, of youthful rebellious summers,
talk of silent deep winters and of elusive springs,
of those dreams of ours where freedom truly rings.
In February, the dawn didn’t see the light of the day;
The Moon had turned cold with melancholic thoughts,
her eyes dry like the sands of Baghdad,
Her face still as the ancient pillars of Cairo,
In her heart, stones burned hot like raging Gaza,
Her breath, a gasping Jhelum of Sopore,
Her possessions, all the blues of the Neelum,
Her dreams, deep and resilient as the Wullar’s heart.
And in that February dawn,
everything dissolves in one shared motion:
A numbing silent motion of wounded souls.
But then again, all the caravan goes on;
To live, ever aspiring to rift the densest fogs,
to find the choral mornings of Shiraz,
to tell wistful stars, cease streaming with grief,
and listen to the whispers at the gate of the new morning.