A Kafir Killed

I always wrote the best verse
The teacher would often say
This pandit boy will be a poet one day

My pen drew images
Of Kashmir,
Meadows and pines
Springs and brooks
Snow and shine

Alas, I forgot….I was a Pandit too,

Soon they will come
To take me away
To the cold street
And shoot me down
My blood will freeze
Before it oozes

My verse would freeze
My voice, go dumb
The azan would rise
And the warriors of God
Will soon find another
Voice to quell
Another pandit to kill

The morning news would read
A KAFIR killed on a cold street