Once a cradle of grace and charms abundant,
That rocked us, Her children, to a tranquil slumber;
While flowing streams and songs of orioles,
Would sing us lullaby, and drowsed us with life.
Dear Mother! This defined you and you defined us.
Gone are the days, and the good in days!
Now like an angered mother, with a cradle of woes,
You rock us into terror and sleepless nights.
With thunders and downpours and roars of flood,
You wake us into death and fear of death.
Come! Come! Who could believe this unhappy bargain—
There! The cradle does replace the tales of peace, of charm and of life
With epic memories of death, of fear and of loss.
Dear Mother, hold us again! Would you?
Zahoor ul Haq Danish