Brick by brick, shall we reconstruct our ruins...
We shall erect monuments for our progeny,
We won't let our cities to stand as ruins,
There is nothing in them except tears and wounds;
It pains us when free people mock us, saying:
' You are the sleeping slaves of others',
Who will tell them that our eyes and hearts are always awake?
They always dream about peace, love, and freedom from tyranny;
They are looking with amuzement...
at the paled, yellow, withered leaves,
But soon they shall come to see...
How our dead garden revives again;
Again people of the world will say with admiration:
' If there is heaven on this earth, that is Kashmir',
Only the biased and people with jaundiced eyes say,
' There is not good enough to see in Kashmir';
In our desolate gardens, we see nightingales and singing birds...
returning to chirp as free birds on the trees,
Why should we fire our soles now...
Angering the persons who had devastated our garden?
We visualise our ravaged cities being reinstated...
They will flourish with life full with peace and love,
It's the biggest consolation and pleasure for us...
to keep on trying to emerge from the dead;
The tyrant hands have broken our vase of love,
Don't think that we won't grow new colourful fragrant flowers...
in our beloved trampled garden of flowers again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem