You were burned alive
on your happy day
along with whom, who
always was with you.
You were only shot
because you had
breathed, your chest
heaved. Or coughed sputum.
They passed you
through salutes,
all of you, your daughters,
in a funeral. When you died.
My sad poems
did not write you,
they offered condolences,
do you recall.
On that cold night
there was terrible mist
and I prayed for
heavy heavy rain
to break every skull through.
Gilgit
November 4,2014.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem