Son of the Valley

The temperature drops below zero,
a mother is cooking meal for her child,
on a vessel using twigs she brought from the dry forest,
as fuel for the fire.

The child hasn't eaten for days,
he is thin and growing pale,
"patience", says the widowed woman,
as night approaches with a cold fury.

Hungry and cold the child enters the dark domain of sleep,
the mother mourns and weeps,
she has nothing to feed the child,
it was just plain water to keep his hope alive.

Again comes the morning,
the sun shining brightly on snow tipped mountains,
and the child is still asleep,
the mother dares not to wake him up,
his cry for food she couldn't bear,
its almost afternoon and the mother approaches the boy,
he isn't breathing anymore,
his lips gon sore,
and his eyes shut to the pain and misery he was subjected to.

He was the son of the valley,
the paradise they call it,
and now he is no more,
have you ever heard his song?

The song about the butterflies,
how beautiful they look,
the flowers in bloom,
the mystic spring in the valley.

Next time you see a loaf of bread,
next time you smell the lillies,
think about the son,
of a paradise turned hell,
named Kashmir.