You remain in my forgetfulness,
in my meanderings mornings,
my gibberish afternoons,
day dreams and sleepless nights.

If i touch this cold water,
take the wet stones in my palm,
or put in my mouth this hailstone,
remember this leads me to you,
as its here that you could still exist,
like a spectre in this mist.

If I sit on this green grass,
or lie under the fence-less sky,
gaze at the eyes of a starless night,
remember my eyes might not find you,
But I believe this breeze will bring you to me,
unlike a sapling or a tree,
here like a river you can ran free.

Days, months and years from now,
if you find I don't remember you anymore,
don't be pained, don't ever cry,
If you don't find me at this mountain bed,
then know that now I am ever closest to you,
because it is the day I die.

Wani is dead.
So are the others.
Fallen to the bullets of his own,
against whom he had raged a war.
Yet hundreds rise every day,
Masked vigilantes of soil,
march to the mosque on Friday.
What is this disease,
That only bullets can cure?

At the barbed wires, soldiers live and die,
these children of men, never leaving a sigh.
The holes in their skulls will never fill,
The story of war will never heal.
The story of war will never heal.

Blood for blood is an eternal chase
these nights of terror, who will erase?
these nights of terror, who will erase?