14th august 1947:
When the British sun choked
on its own horizon,
A star fell from the heavens
at the empire’s feet—
White-hot with purpose.
From its embers,
I forged a crescent moon,
And stitched it on my flag.
Midnight split like a pomegranate,
seeds spilling across borders,
some became refugees,
some became martyrs,
all became legends.
I cradled millions then,
and I will cradle millions more.
They said I would drown
in my first monsoon.
But watch how I swallowed
the Indus whole,
And sprouted minarets in Karachi,
And saffron fields in Peshawar.
Watch how my Himalayas
planted themselves
like swords along my borders.
And my mango trees
dropped their fruit like grenades
of golden resistance.
This was no freedom granted
This was freedom taken
with teeth, with poetry,
with the cracked palms of farmers,
And the unshakable certainty
that freedom is worth dying for.
So, I am not just green and white,
I am the colour of plum flesh,
and the shimmer of truck art,
My streets smell of motia and naan,
And my ports hum with fish and futures.
My beauty is relentless.
This is my covenant:
No empire can own me.
My dawns will always come,
golden, defiant,
dripping with the honey of resilience.
So, when the anthem plays,
And the scent of jasmine and freedom
fills the streets
When the children chant
“Pakistan Zindabad,”
Remember:
I am the land of the brave,
I am the unbreakable yes
after centuries of no.
I am the firefly
who swallowed the dark
and called it dawn.
I am Pakistan.
I am the unbreakable dawn.
