Poem written as India-Pakistan do their war dance
Two leaders shout across a line,
Drawn in dust, not law, nor sign.
Their fingers jab, their speeches burn,
While homes collapse and mothers yearn.
A cradle rocks with no one near,
Its lullaby a silent tear.
Children sleep beneath the blast,
Dreams of peace already past.
The shaheen will not dive for prey,
That falls from war’s deceitful play.
Nor Rumi’s reed will sing of pride,
Where bombs and slogans both divide.
From Gaza’s flame to Yemen’s moan,
To Kyiv’s frost and shattered stone—
Each empire spins its cruel disguise,
While angels turn away their eyes.
But lo—when Allah strikes the frame,
And all the stars forget their name—
No flag shall shield, no rank shall save,
Each tear will rise from every grave.
So plant a rose where shells have scarred,
And teach the stars to children marred.
The only border truth will trust
Is not in blood, but drawn in dust.
