We are aliens in our homes
As we have no rooms.
Vast Earth is squeezed for us
As there is no bus.
Our documents are fake
So we have no one to take.
Our souls are strangers
Because we are not good managers.
Our Creator only gives us food to eat,
So that we can remain on false beat.
Air is cheap
To have nothing to reap.
Our nears are far,
To force us to be at war.
Our land is other’s.
We don’t have bothers.
(The author is a freelancer. Views are his own) [email protected]
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Mir Hasnain Iqbal With the onset of winter, Kashmir begins to witness a familiar but troubling scene. Coughs, colds, fever...
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