Who Is to Blame?

A nation built upon love and sacrifice,

Now divided—India and Pakistan.

Once stood tall, arm in arm,

But the arms were severed,

And the wound—still fresh—festers quietly.

The things that were once one

Now cannot bear the sight of each other.

Who is to blame?

There are many names.

But does it matter?

It does.

To whom, they ask?

I say—to those who lost their lives.

To the innocents whose blood painted the soil,

To the cries that cracked the sky with sorrow.

But who is to blame?

Religion? The politicians? The military?

Or perhaps—all of the above.

Or maybe—none at all.