for it is best not to be seen, my child.
it is best not to be known in the land of the forgotten.
no one remembers, love. she tells me. no one remembers my heaven on earth. no one remembers my land of light. my land where angels resided, but now God weeps every night. Mother jhelum is crimson now, but its calming sounds, seem to mask the screams of the corpses underneath. and when my people look inside its crystal waters, their eyes widen, and death winks at me. for it is best not to see, my child. it is best not to know in the land of the forgotten. i want to interrupt but i can’t. i’ve been silent for too long, she tells me. this was no, is the home of my women. women, who used to walk through my fields, singing songs of me. songs that now only exist as echoes of the foregone, my women who now only exist as shadows in the dawn. for it is best not to be seen, my child. it is best not to be known in the land of the forgotten. she pauses and the silence between us lingers. so i tell her. another harsh winter is coming, another winter of frozen corpses, and dreary boat rides in dal. but you must stay. you must hear me, my beloved. where there is life, there is hope. so let me sing to you, and you shall overcome. let me sing to you like your women did, for if you leave now, who will know how much you weeped? let me sing to you dearest kashmir, come out now, it is your time to be seen.