By JH Sayyar
O rise, green land, where Indus Rivers flow,
Thy sons awaken from the centuries’ night
Their voices thunder where the tempests blow,
Truth once chained now clamors for the light.
No tyrant’s grip, nor robe of veiled deceit,
Can crush the fire that justice dares to fan;
The barefoot marchers in the dusty street
Are crafting from their cries a newer plan
The flag still flutters, torn yet brave and high,
Its crescent seeking dawn through flame;
And though the hawks may circle in the sky,
The dove returns, and dares to speak its name.
O Peoples of Pakistan, thy fate thy own shall be:
A heavenly garden born again from your agony
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