The river knows, the mountain knows,
How sudden grief through silence grows.
A single shot, a world undone,
Beneath the cold and weeping sun.

Pahalgam, cradle of the skies,
Now listens to her children's cries.
Where once the saffron fields would sway,
Now fallen dreams like ashes lie.

The cedar bends with a heavy heart,
The valley shudders, torn apart.
Mothers clutch prayers in trembling hands,
Fathers kneel in broken lands.

The blood of youth, too fresh, too bright,
Has stained the stars, has drowned the night.
Oh, holy springs, oh hallowed ground,
Why must your peace be a battleground?

No reason spoken, none will do,
To justify this crimson hue.
A valley sings, though voices crack
A lament for the ones not back.

Grief carves its name on every stone,
Yet still the heart will not disown.

.    .    .