In Pahalgam where mountains kiss the skies,
A valley weeps as innocence dies.
Tourists had come with hearts so light,
To bask in peace, beneath the height.
But shadows crept in soldier’s guise,
With evil burning in their eyes.
They came not for war, but blood and fear,
Their bullets silenced laughter near.
Among the slain, a soldier lay,
Wed just six days—then torn away.
His bride knelt low with tear-streaked face,
By shattered dreams and empty space.
The world looked on in shocked despair,
Yet silence often fills the air.
For Hindus know this grief too well,
In exile’s ache, in stories they tell.
Since ninety’s chill, our wounds still burn,
To homes and temples we can’t return.
The pain repeats, the screams, the cries,
Each massacre, a soul that dies.
Is justice blind or just delayed?
How many more must be betrayed?
The world must see, and must believe,
What we have lost, what we still grieve.
The blood that flowed in Pahalgam’s stream,
Tears through the veil of every dream.
This wasn’t war, this was pure hate,
A killing done to cleanse a state.
But truth will rise, it will not bend,
We carry wounds that time won’t mend.
O world, awaken, hear this plea,
Our pain is real—our right to be.
And as we light a prayer’s flame,
We whisper each lost victim’s name.