From Kishtwar’s hills to hamlet’s bend,
He learned to serve before pretend.
He walked not roads of glittered ease,
But those where barefoot elders freeze.
He gave his coat to trembling youth,
And fed the orphans bread and truth.
He bought the pills that no one could,
And stood where not even angels would.
In Chatroo’s heights, the truth he spoke,
Exposing lies the system cloaked.
Though summoned fast by wary law,
He stood unshaken, firm and raw.
He saved from fire, gave light for free,
Spoke for the sick with no one to see.
He filmed lost schools, fed orphans poor,
And knocked on every helpless door.
A voice for those the world won’t hear,
A bridge where systems disappear.
He stands where silence used to be
And dares the blind to finally see.
For hospitals where hope ran dry,
He raised his voice, he asked them: “Why?”
Why should the sick in pain endure,
When help is near yet not so sure?
In fire’s fury, when homes were lost,
He rushed ahead despite the cost.
A rescuer not trained by creed,
But by the burning call of need.
When floods would come, or landslides fall,
Burhan would rise to heed the call.
A phone in hand, a heart so wide,
To lift the broken, stand beside.
He walked the lanes with youth and old,
For “Mission Bijli Free” he told.
That rivers flow and turbines run,
Yet homes stay dark when day is done.
He asked the men of power and seat,
Where is the warmth, where is the heat?
When wealth is made from mountain streams,
Why must the poor dream only dreams?
He’s spoken too for roads unlaid,
For orphans’ meals and fees unpaid,
For women’s health, for old men’s care,
He speaks where others do not dare.
Not rich in coin, but rich in grace,
He wears the pain upon his face.
With humble phone and open page,
He fights injustice, voice of age.
He walks among the poor and frail,
He listens to the widow’s tale.
He lifts the sick, the lost, the least,
He stands where tyrants fear to feast.
No suit, no tie, no office tall,
Yet crowds would gather at his call.
A youth with heart the size of land,
He spoke for those without a stand.
He asked for light where darkness lay,
For roads where floods had washed away.
He challenged those who sit in power,
With just his voice, a phone, a flower.
He filmed the pain we learned to miss,
The hunger masked in silent bliss.
He fought not with a sword or pen
But by restoring faith in men.
When roofs collapsed and embers fell,
Burhan was there the people tell.
Not with a badge, not sent by force,
But led by heart, his only source.
He pulled the injured from the flame,
And never once demanded fame.
He held a child through coldest snow,
So mothers slept in peace below.
He filmed the wrongs they hoped to hide,
Like schools where teachers don’t reside.
He showed the empty hospital beds,
Where promises had lost their threads.
And though the power tried to scare,
To question why he even “dared,”
He stood his ground, both calm and plain
With only truth in his domain.
He gives the mic to those unheard,
Transforms a tear into a word.
He teaches youth: “Don’t beg, don’t wait,
Build justice now, and challenge fate.”
Where others scroll, he takes a stand,
And lifts the weak with outstretched hand.
Not just a critic but a guide,
A storm with hope beneath the tide.
O readers, know this name with pride,
Whose footsteps rise with every stride.
A youth whose pen and phone became
The tools to build a kinder flame.
In Kishtwar’s heart he stands alone,
Yet carries not just flesh and bone.
He bears a people’s silent cry
Their sun beneath a cloudy sky.
Let not the world in silence stay,
But mark his path, and learn the way.
For heroes rise not just in war,
But in the peace that Burhan bore
Written by POET AND AUTHOR MUZAMIL ARIF BHALESSI
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