A battle for a myth, A battle for a new history

The icy wind blew in from the west as I glided over the foothills

The plains stretched out before me as far as the horizon

The setting sun coloured it pink, the skies wore a reddish tint

A long train of people bearing torches climbed up the hills in a hurry

They wore ochre and held up pennants of yellow and orange

The village they passed through was deathly silent, save for a barking dog

The paddy was golden and ready for harvest, it swayed in the wind

The fields were soon obscured by the rising smoke, they had set it afire

As the sun set, the raging fires lit the landscape and the shadows danced

The ancient stones that were piled up into a dome had green algae over them

The minaret rose into a spindly top which wavered as the hot air shimmered

Their pickaxes and hammers rained down the bricks and stones into rubble

Their work done, they rejoiced with bloodcurdling cries, their rage unslaked,

They rushed down the hill into the silent village now lit by the lush moonlight

Soon the air froze with the moans of women wrenched out of their houses

The forest grew rigid with the icy frost sending a spike into the heart of nature

The blood of the menfolk flowed down the cobbled streets, the children scurried

and slipped on the red stream as they fled away into the Deodar forests

The morning after saw the birds chirping sweetly once again

The Deodars swayed gently in the breeze that blew in from the west

The children emerged from the depths of shadows, too numb to speak or cry