any limerick poem on jammu and Kashmir
pls ans it I needed it soon
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No one knows her here by her name,
the one who is sitting mum
there on a wooden log,
the woman whose son was slaughtered
with a chainsaw,
is the only identity she has
in this refugee camp.
II
The night they fled,
leaving behind their village, home, hearth
and half-cooked bread on the stove,
who had come to see them
a night before that night?
And why didn't they open their windows
and door, for anyone after that?
Even before they could tell us,
why they had not been able to look
into the eyes of their daughters
ever since then...
a *Chinar falls,
making a creaking sound,
they could never tell us all,
what they really wanted to…!
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