O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more

While the man in the black robe gropes and misleads, all your children can do is blindfold their eyes and hearts.

O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more.
The men with daggers for hearts walk the blood-soaked streets free and alive,
With eyes colder than the Kashmir winds and veins warmer than Thar, they thrive,
And all your children can do is close their eyes as the blood seeps into the roots, and from society, they drive.

The women afraid of walking into the vegetable store, of all ages,
Succumbing to the prying eyes, the filth that lay within the savages,
They yell and scream, yell and scream, into the newspaper pages,
And all your children can do is turn it over as a mere casualty in the inevitable collateral damages,
O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more.

The farmer cuts, sews and grows, while they steal, kill and throw,
The beggar crawls, hides and bleeds,
While the man in the black robe shoves, gropes and misleads,
And all your children can do is blindfold their eyes and their hearts,
O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more.

Children walk into the halls of the law, with a gun for hand,
The creation of the trade of books for land, and family for command,
They lie and cheat, kill and deceive, following in their ancestral footsteps, just as planned,
And all your children try to do is to reason, compromise and in pity of the children, understand,
O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more.

The artist, in his den works away at the last masterpiece, as he is drowned in the red, with no remorse,
The writer types the last sentence, in the depth of his soul, as he is choked by his own people, a policy inevitably endorsed,
And all your children can do is slowly start to fade away all the music, art, and literature and pretend to be content with their dull divorce,
O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more.

The colour on the skin begins to mean more than the blood that flows within,
The cross on your chest begins to mean more than the heart that lay within,
The Constitution begins to mean nothing more than the same oil-soaked newspaper that the savages keep their guns in,
And all your children can do as the value of life is reduced to a single label, is to continue smiling as everything around them is soaked in sin,
O’ Father, you said,

“There’s no power that can undo Pakistan,”

The soul is lost, the heart thrown in the gutters and the land, virgin no more,

O’ Father, your prophecy lives on no more.