(A Prayer for India & Pakistan Stop War) By Dr. Bilal Ahmad Bhat for KASHmirie
Two ancient lands beneath the same sky,
Bound by rivers, histories, and lullabies.
Yet thunder rolls across your fields and farms,
Not from monsoon rain, but from men with arms.
Sisters once, before the silence split the thread,
Now fear walks where children should tread.
Every roar of a jet, every march of boots,
Shakes the soil and severs roots.
What have we gained with our fists held tight?
Pride, perhaps—but never light.
For in each battle, it is love that dies,
While hatred grows with truthless cries.
A boy in Rawalpindi, a girl in Kanpur—
They both dream of a world that’s secure.
But their dreams are crushed by border walls,
Where the cry of doves is drowned by calls
For revenge, for power, for crimson soil,
Turning heritage to hate and hearts to spoil.
O rulers of the realm, with your suits and pens,
Do you know what it costs to bury friends?
Do you see the widow who weeps alone,
Or hear the orphan’s muffled moan?
You speak in treaties, in tactics and lines,
While time erodes your hardened designs.
But blood once spilled will stain the sand,
And no prayer will cleanse your trembling hand.
From Gilgit to Gujarat, from Sindh to Srinagar,
There lives a truth no weapon can mar:
That no faith preaches bullets or flame,
And no god blesses war in His name.
Do we not share spices, songs, and speech?
Does not the same moon on both nations reach?
Are not our legends woven in the same loom?
Why then must we sow a harvest of gloom?
Who benefits when brothers break?
Not the farmer, nor the child at stake.
Not the mother with her silent plate,
Nor the lovers torn by a soldier’s fate.
It is not war that makes a nation great—
But the peace it builds and cultivates.
It is not missiles that guard our lands,
But empathy, and outstretched hands.
Let us not wait for another dawn
To regret the dreams we’ve trampled on.
Let the embers cool, the banners fall,
And silence return to the wailing wall.
Let the tricolor and crescent moon
Be honored by peace, not marred by ruin.
Let diplomats sit where generals stood,
And rewrite treaties for a common good.
The youth are watching—teach them well.
Not with martyr tales, but with the spell
Of music, poetry, trade, and art,
For healing begins when we open the heart.
O India, O Pakistan,
Let not your children carry on
The burden of our blind disdain—
End this cycle. Break the chain.
For every war begins with fear,
But peace begins when we draw near.
So take the first step, plant the first tree,
And let peace be our shared legacy.
