Whispers of the Valley

In the valleys once lush, with voices so clear,
A community thrived, now wrapped in its fear.
They fled through the night, with hearts full of pain,
Carrying memories of a place they can’t regain.

The streets once their own, now silent and cold,
Stories of sorrow in the winds that unfold.
For thirty-five years, they’ve carried the weight,
Of a homeland lost, of a twisted fate.

Some seek revenge, the ghosts of the past,
Some cry for justice, but peace seems so vast.
Others build lives, in cities unknown,
Hoping to heal in places they’ve grown.

But voices are stifled, and hearts filled with doubt,
Who will listen when anger spills out?
The ones who return, with dreams to restore,
Are often met with resentment, a silent uproar.

The doctors, the scholars, the bankers, the rest,
All have their stories, their truths in their chest.
They say, “We survived, we built, we moved on,”
But in their eyes, the pain lingers on.

To speak is to risk what little is left,
The trust is broken, the wounds still deft.
For some, it’s a future, for others, a fight,
For the homeland they lost in the deep of the night.

So, who will listen to the whispers of the past,
To the voices suppressed, to the shadows they cast?
For the pain runs deep, and the scars never fade,
But only through understanding can the cycle be swayed.

Let empathy heal, let justice unfold,
And may the truth of their journey be told.
For the Kashmir they knew, in the hearts they have kept,
Is a land of dreams, where the past hasn’t slept.