Motionless In Bed, Counting Stars Poem by Mohammad Younus

Motionless in bed, counting stars,
Caught between sorrow and fury,
I murmur freedom, oppression—
Words that shatter in silence.

They speak of our land:
'If there is paradise on earth,
It is here, here, and here.'
Yet they've turned this paradise
Into a living hell.

Does it not whisper betrayal?
Colonists claim our land
As jagir, their promised realm,
While bleeding it dry.

The aroma of saffron, tulips, and roses
Drifts over scorched earth,
A lament entwined with hope.

On rostrums, they stand,
Waving hands to muted crowds,
Praising kehwa, scenic splendor,
'Peace-loving souls, unrebelious.'

To buyers of lies, they proclaim:
'See these people—they're fine,
Living in palatial homes,
Roaming in Mughal gardens,
Gliding on fantastic shikaras.'
But polished words
Cannot cleanse blood from the lakes.

Their sadistic laughter echoes,
But the cries of the people
Rise louder, like unbroken waves,
Crashing against their hollow lies.

The tunes of music bands,
Wanwun and chakri songs,
Once sweet as Kashmir's air,
Now torment my conscience.
The melody of our land
Is no longer sweet.

MyKoul