The Wagah iron gates are bolted tight.
The searchlights cut across the Punjab night.
A sniper watches through a thermal screen,
Where fields of mustard separate the green.
The Chenab River flows through mountain stone,
Dividing water, neither side can own.
An ancient grandmother in Lahore sighs,
While Amritsar's smoke fills up the morning skies.
The daytime grandstand roars with heavy boots.
The midnight dark is pierced by sudden shoots.
A concrete bunker guards the Line of Control,
Where freezing mountain winds exact their toll.
Two flags fly high against the selfsame sun.
Two boys hold steel and wonder what they've done.
The dust of partition refuses to clear.
And seventy years are swallowed by the fear.

.    .    .