By Jasmeen Chhabra
Every time you went out to protect this land,
my heart yelled out for you not to go.
I craved for time to freeze—
craved and prayed—
yet it never froze.
Was the chilling urge locked in my iced throat
not enough of an indication?
As I daggered myself with the curse of stone,
stopping myself,
I had already committed treason—
betrayed this land of miracles,
this motherland of sanctity—
with my thought alone.
Yet even as the urge to perform this act of betrayal remained potent,
my lips never moved;
they were frigid, they were ice-cold.
Because the act of treachery was easy for me to execute,
but my respect for your purpose,
I could never lose.
I knew what you did was selfless,
unimaginable to others,
filled with troubles,
doubled with struggles.
And even after this realisation—
forgive me, my love—
for I remain selfish.
So inherently human,
just a civilian in love with her soldier,
never letting him know,
but always—quietly—hoping he wouldn't go.