By Maheen Baloch
I met you in a book, Noti,
not on a page,
but in the weight between the lines.
A child with a motorbike morning,
dreams small enough to hold,
yet large enough to break a cage.
You did not remain a child for long.
The world stitched you with thorns.
Each wound took something soft
and gave you something sharp.
That is how you awakened.
They told you to stay silent.
Silence was the law,
and the law was the gun.
But you chose the harder battle:
to speak when your voice trembled,
to write when your hands bled ink.
I saw your mother’s name in your letters
and knew you were not writing for tears.
You were writing so the land could outlive fear,
so daughters would no longer stand in line
to be forgotten.
They took sons,
they took names,
they left blood-mehndi upon our hands.
But you cannot bury a story
that refuses to lie down.
Martyrs do not end in graves;
they begin walking in the hearts of others.
Now, when I read you, I feel it:
you are not gone.
You live in the girl
who asks herself difficult questions.
You live in the old man
who still speaks your name aloud.
You live in me
whenever I refuse to look away.
If they bring war, let it starve first.
Let bread, water, and one honest word
travel farther than any bullet.
A ceasefire is not surrender.
It is choosing the living
before counting the dead.
So here is my pledge, Noti:
I will not let your stitch come undone.
We will carry it
one word, one child, one dawn at a time,
until the walls of a free land
hold your picture not as a memory,
but as a lesson for the next generation.
You felt broken, though you still stood.
Now it is our turn.
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this poem are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of The Balochistan Post or any of its editors.