Siachen

At the savage, indigo sky,
draped in snow, claw the mountains high.
By the cirque, a base, sheltered 'neath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.

A field of kash, in autumn swirl,
the dark braid of that village girl.
Mother's white, unwavering faith,
his gun sings the ballad of death.

Skin burns through the synthetic girth,
frozen blood inseminates earth.
Echo of loss shudders his breath,
his gun sings the ballad of death.

At the savage, indigo sky,
his gun sings the ballad of death.

Icy days and nights,
No summer warms,
No fragrance of green, lush grass,
Close to the sky,
But far from the loved ones,
Rigged battlefield mired with
decades of bloodshed and frustration,
Long blotted the history of the
subcontinent with the deaths of thousands;
Loosing their lives in the warfare!