Why couldn’t he meet his wife before his death
What national security crisis would it make
Why was the state so clearly short of breath
What was it that was so fiercely at stake.
Weren’t the evidences strong enough
Circumstantial, some noisy critics say
For me, Mr. Indian, militants are bad enough
O Kashmir, my holiday land once so gay.
How I miss the shikaras and the houseboats
The handsome men and women apple cheek
The pretty girls selling cherries and Akhrot
The Kashmir ki kali, my sweetheart always meek.
I wonder what those flowers are doing now
Is he still alive, the guy who cooked for us
Did he join the rebels, say, at Pahelgaon
Does the smiling Farook still drive a tourist bus.
Or did they all disappear in the thin air
Like so many others in my holiday land
It’s after all a political laissez fair
And self-determination always contraband.
Afzal Guru, the man who found his grave
In the jail where he was legally done to death.
I for one have a peaceful face to save
While the state was so clearly short of breath.
