When winter sighs its final breath,
And glaciers weep in silent grace,
Kashmir awakes from icy death
A dream is reborn in time and place.

Snowdrops part the shroud of white,
Soft blossoms lace the warming air,
The sky returns in sapphire light,
And saffron breezes whisper prayer.

Beneath the chinars’ noble limbs,
Where branches blush in crimson fire,
The valley hums immortal hymns,
As though the land itself aspires.

Each tulip cups the morning dew.
Like pearls upon a silken cheek,
The meadows bloom in every hue,
And silence turns to song to speak.

Dal Lake glistens, glass, and flame,
A mirror of the mountain’s pride,
Its waters chant the April’s name.
While shikaras in stillness glide.

Orchards wake in scented flood,
With apple buds and almond bloom,
Their fragrance stirs the sleeping blood,
Reviving hearts from winter’s gloom.

The bulbul sings on willow string,
Its notes like tears of joy released,
And every fluttering, feathered wing
Proclaims the thaw, the warmth, the feast.

Above, the Pir Panjal still holds
Its silver veil, austere and grand,
Yet down below, in sunlit folds,
A gentler power rules the land.

The saffron fields, once stark and bare,
Now blush like dawn beneath the sun,
The breeze wears garlands in her hair,
And tells the soil its work is done.

The children chase the golden bees,
Their laughter trailing through the grove,
They run beneath the cherry trees,
Through blooming secrets, they uncover and rove.

The willow branches dip and bow.
To kiss the Jhelum's swelling tide,
As if they feel, this very now,
The sacred pulse of spring’s new bride.

No palace carved from mortal stone,
No painting by a master's hand,
Could mimic this celestial tone
That nature spills across the land.

Moss rises green on garden walls,
New roses dare to meet the frost,
Each petal in the sunlight calls.
To all that time and cold had lost.

The air is laced with poetry,
Not written but in scent and shade.
A poem of God’s artistry
In colors that can never fade.

In Nishat’s tiers, the fountains leap
Like joy from ancient marble hearts,
Each drop a vow the earth will keep
Each arc is a soul that spring imparts.

And lovers stroll through Hazratbal,
The doves like prayers above them soar,
In every glance, they hear the call.
Of spring that breathes through love once more.

The poplars line the dreaming roads.
Like guardians in the soft array,
As if they know what grace forebodes
In every green and golden day.

Shepherds move with a gentle pace.
Through hills that bloom in coral light,
The lambs they guide, like spring's own grace,
Play shadows in the slant of night.

Even the silence speaks anew.
In gardens fed by thawing streams,
Where every leaf wears drops of dew
Like fragments of forgotten dreams.

The clouds, once heavy with regret,
Now sail like veils through skies of blue,
Their burden gone, their edges wet.
They weep, but now in joy, they do.

Gulmarg sings in floral choir,
Its slopes are no longer hushed in white,
The wind returns with soft desire,
And wraps the hills in green delight.

No muse could weave in mortal verse.
The full of spring’s transcendent bloom
Yet here in Kashmir’s universe,
Each breeze dissolves the grip of gloom.

A thousand pines, like temple spires,
Perfume the air with sacred lore,
As if the woods hold holy choirs
And roots remember myths of yore.

Each step one takes upon this ground.
Is like a hymn beneath the feet,
Where every petal, branch, and sound
In spring Kashmir gently meet.

The shepherd flutes at eventide,
His notes are like smoke in the dusky glow,
They rise where violet shadows bide
And stir the stars to wake and show.

No other land, no gentler birth,
Could match what stirs beneath this sky,
For here, the spring restores the earth.
And teaches frozen hearts to fly.

Let every bloom in silence say
What mouths and books can’t quite contain:
That paradise is not far away.
It lives where spring returns again.

And if you walk these fragrant ways,
With an open soul and quiet mind,
You’ll feel the breath of ancient days.
And leave no trace of grief behind.

O Kashmir, in your vernal grace,
You mirror Eden’s ageless form,
A fleeting glimpse, a sacred place
Where spring outlives the coldest storm.

Let kings and poets seek their fame,
Let songs be sung in marble halls.
But spring in Kashmir needs no name.
It writes its truth on mountain walls.

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