Mountain wind, mountain mist,
hoping nights would last longer, rooting for the circumstance with a closed fist.
Gale gushing through my hair,
magic of the mountains calling my name,
people say this infatuation won’t last, in my heart I know I don’t care,
the world will these menial things forget, but I shall dust them as they bloom in their frame.
Myriad hues of the skies , martyrs’ tears trickling down as rain guarding the nation from above,
battling the worst of enemies even beyond life, driven by love and respect for the nation over a commanded behove.
Stranded lands, piercing cold winds, mild dew,
two tapestries to save but only one permitted to sew.
Staring into the moon’s gaze, belittled by the stars’ lustre,
on ground and above, we’ll toast to freedom, as we roar the war cry in a cluster.
Snowy peaks with avalanches strong, undisturbed birds flying high,
fear not, for I will return and fight one more time if on the battlefield I die.
We’ve been told the water is sweet, blood is thicker,
yet why does it feel that the water’s heavier than the red liquid?
Why are brothers and sisters made and not born?
Why is the last breath not so important anymore and all that matters is freedom?
Why does love feel like a luxury?
Where can I sit and cry for hours undisturbed?
I remember it being a stable tempo, yet all I hear now are cries, reverbed.
Laying in cold, the ice makes it’s way to my mind, penning down my last expression,
with a heavy heart the ice wins this battle, while I lay helpless, in its discretion.