From the defrosting flake of my Snow;
From the rusted strand of my Saffron;
From the abscised leaves of my Chinar;
From the drips of ale of my Jhelum;
I will rise; I will rise

Wailing for my martyred son,
From the cry of a mother, I will rise.

Witnessing my father’s death,
From the ire of a son, I will rise.

Yearning for my husband’s return,
From the contemplation of a Half Widow, I will rise.

I am the Undying Blaze among my youth,
I will rise; I will rise.

From the dust of thousands of my unmarked graves;
From the beads of blood of my kith and kin;
From the unrelenting resentment of my youth;
From the dragging of your PAVA smoke, yet as dynamite,
I will rise, I will rise.

Shoot me, kill me, maim me or even blind me,
Withstanding all the odds,
I will rise, I will rise.

From my grief, my anger, my tears and my silence,
I will rise, I will rise.
For I am the land of the martyrs.

No matter how, but for sure,
I will rise, I will rise.

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