I am Pahalgam,
Cradled by mountains, carved by rivers,
a hymn of hush, a cradle of peace.
But today, I weep.

What should have bloomed,
a festival of footsteps,
laughter spilled like sunlight on pine,
was shattered by shadows,
by hands heavy with hate.

They were not merely taken,
they were chosen
By a blindness that fears faith,
by a cruelty that marks belief as a wound.

Now, my meadows hold their breath.
The trails sleep beneath dust.
The breeze, once laced with whispers of joy,
carries only the mourning of the land.

This is no passing sorrow.
It is a scar,
etched deep into my valleys,
aching, unhealed, unforgettable.

Simi