A. Lhunkhojaang Vaangkho

In a land, endowed with customary grace,
From elder hands to younger kin,
Once we built a village, brick by brick,
A humble dream to pick,
With hands calloused, and hearts full of hope,
We shaped our paradise, helped each other cope.

Here, every field whispered tales of toil,
Every flower that bloomed was fed by our soil,
From meagre means, we’d rise and strive,
And we saw in each other a spirit alive.

The children played under the wide sky’s grace,
Dreams grew tall, like the trees in this place,
And though our pockets were mostly bare,
Love and laughter filled the air.

Christmas came, and the village would glow,
Families returned, with stories to show,
Around the fire, we sang as one,
Different paths met where we’d begun.

But hatred found us, brought winds of despair,
A darkness fell, we could not repair,
Flames consumed what we built with care,
Ashes scattered, filled the air.

Now, where peace had gently lain,
There’s only silence, echoes of pain,
Our village, our dreams, turned to dust,
Our hearts still cling to what they must.

But somewhere within, the embers still burn,
For the village we lost, we yearn and yearn,
In memory's embrace, we find our way,
And dream of rebuilding, come what may.

We’ll gather again, however small,
For love, even buried, answers the call,
And one day, from ashes, we will rise,
To build anew under forgiving skies.