RANSOM

— For the Birth of Pakistan —

They say a land was born one day,

But not from ease, not in play.

It rose from ash, from blood, from flame,

And “Pakistan” became its name.

Its price? Not silver, not with gold—

But stories too bitter to be told.

The ransom paid by faithful hearts,

By bleeding hands and shattered parts.

The trains arrived, but full of death,

With silence where there should be breath.

The wagons cried with lifeless forms,

Torn by blades, by hate, by storms.

The daughters of Islam, pure and bright,

Were stolen in the dark of night.

By hands that knew no sacred line,

Their honor lost, yet souls divine.

They jumped in wells, they burned alive,

So faith, not shame, would yet survive.

Their names unknown, their graves unmarked,

But in our hearts, forever sparked.

The men were hacked on dusty roads,

Their only crime: to bear the code—

“La ilaha illallah,” their cry,

Their dream beneath a crescent sky.

Mothers fled with burning feet,

Clutching Qurans and children sweet.

They crossed the lands, they braved the trains,

With hungry mouths and silent pains.

And when they reached this sacred place,

With trembling hands, with tired face,

They kissed the soil, they wept in prayer,

For all they'd lost to find it there.

This land, this home, this promised part,

Was bought with every beating heart.

Not gifted, not by chance or fate—

It came through fire, it walked through hate.

So on each Independence Day,

Remember those who paved the way.

Their blood runs deep beneath our sand—

Pakistan, our ransomed land.

Imran Nazeer
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