Awake!

rise from ashes to glory and

greatness.
The world is full of stories, the stories of all kinds, full of the stories
depicting joys, grieves blessings and cursing of the world, There are
stories which can give the cold shivers around your spine, stories
that can give you goose bumps all and whole, stories that can take
your heart out of chest and leave it to ground to feel pain… but few
stories can turn man to ash. Those are Few stories
Story1: the story entails the depiction of a train that embarks on its
journey from Delhi and is bound to reach karachi. The train is filled
with happy and delightful faces, in a matter of minutes the rioters
attacked and the whole train is butchered and massacred. what
remains is ash.
The story 2: The story unfolds in the school where students are
learning the lesson pen is mightier than sword and the same school
is roared with gun fire, matter of minutes, 134 causalities. 134
flowers turned into ash. What remains is only ash
Ash of a dream that is torn, ash of a promise that is broken, ash of a
smile that is ripped
And here I am, under silent, starless sky, standing on the ash, fragile,
weak, hampered and torn, torn because promised to me was an
abode, and given to me is ash. Promised to me was glory and turned
then me into ash, torn because I know I am manipulated by foreign
powers. My sovereignty is an illusion. my fate and leadership lie in
the hands of foreign governments. I dance to tune of puppet-masters.
The air I breath is heavy with despondence, helplessness and
desperation. I deserved respect, not given. Deserved honor:
snatched, deserved freedom: caught, deserved help: victimized,
deserved equality: treated inferiorly deserved love: given hatred, I
am enslaved, I am burnt, , I am engraved, chocked, banned, chained,
I am devoured by dogs, foxes and wolves. I am abducted in the
plateau of balochistan I am butchered in the streets of karachi,
bombarded by drones in Waziristan, slaughtered inhumanly in aps
pesahawar, shot ruthlessly in model town. I bleed and bleed a lot
asking

When will our gaze be relieved

by the sight of pristine spring;
how many rains will it take
to wash away the bloodstains? X2

When blood stains are not washed and eyes are parched, feet are
tired and body is torn, flames blaze the body, yet ears listen to the
voice. A voice that says awake. Awake and extinguish the fire,
awake and get the land of longing Awake and pledge failure will
never course in my veins. Awake and hear not those who weep and
complain. Awake and be likened to the rain drop which washes away
the mountain, the ant that devours a tiger, the star which brightens
the earth, and the slave who builds a pyramid. The voice says, awake
and rise from ashes to glory and greatness

Let us stand and awake and sing it together,

“Let the laws of your own land,

Good or ill, between ye stand

Hand to hand, and foot to foot,

Arbiters of the dispute,

“Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number—

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you—

Ye are many—they are few.”