A nine-month-old,
Rendered helpless and cold,
Her mother has been murdered,
Killer’s have their hold.
Who will quench my thirst, when
I scream in angst?

Who will satiate my hunger,
in the winter thunder?
Who will sing me songs and lullabies,
and comfort me to sleep?

Who will embellish me in dazzling attires
to cause clouds to rain?

Nine-year-old Burhan Fayaz is seen crying at the funeral of his friend.
Photo: Hindustan Times

Who will coiffe my hair
to render fairies covetous?
Who will adorn me in the uniform
to make my father proud?
Who will fill my school tiffin
and wave me goodbye?

Who will receive me at 4 PM
In the summer blister?
Whom will I, oh mother, tell my secrets?

With whom will I share my joys and sorrows?
Is there anyone to hearken to my pleas?
Besides you, oh mother, no one can understand me.

Scenes from a funeral in Kashmir.

Who will sing the songs sweet,
look for my suitor,
and apply henna on my hands?

Will not my Abu feel hapless?
It seems mountains have fallen.

Upon your Killing, skies weep relentless!
I am too little to find my way.
My screams can’t reach the power corridors.
Resurrect oh mother, let’s have our day.
Embrace me in lap and break the enemy hold.

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