The blood of the dreams,

screams of people,

turning the soil from brown to red,

Janeu somewhere, kara somewhere,

while the namaj topi stained red lying somewhere.

 

Unable to distinguish the blood,

if it were of kid, mother or father,

or of Hindu or Muslim or Sikh or Christian, 

because it was red for all, 

unlike the religion of deceased.

 

The haunted house,

violence in the city and mass exodus,

the giggling home are now tormented,

and is the place of fear and death.

 

In the cities of terror,

families leaving the city, 

their ancestral home, 

earnings of generation,

with teary eyes and the valuables in bag.

 

Some old one chose to die in their homeland, 

and their young kids left them with heavy heart, 

Some scrambled on the way, 

and relatives were unfortunate enough unable to perform the last rites. 

 

No one wanted to leave their home, 

but was so unsafe to stay at the place which was once known as home,

that was the night which every patriot dreamed of, 

but never imagined it would be a nightmare. 

 

That was the night of freedom, 

the Independence of nation, 

the partition of nation, 

carrying the bitterness even after seven decades. 

That scary night

was the night of partition of India - August 1947.

 

 

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