Will You Ever Understand the Redness of Blood in the Flowers?

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 Will You Ever Understand the Redness of Blood in the Flowers?



For the brave hearts of Balochistan

Will you ever understand

The redness of blood in the flowers?

Not just petals swaying in the breeze,

But stories buried beneath the towers—

Of mountains that have seen too much,

Of children lost, of cries unheard,

Of mothers holding silence close,

Where bullets answered every word.


The fields still bloom in Baloch land,

But not with peace or gentle hours—

They rise from wounds, from broken hands,

From graves that blossom into flowers.

Each color speaks of stolen rights,

Of voices caged behind a wall,

Of generations in the fight—

That stood, though powers made them fall.


This is not just a land of stone,

But of hearts that burn to see it free,

Of youth who speak though left alone,

With courage carved from memory.

The world may turn its blinded eye,

But truth like fire will not fade—

And every flower, though crushed, will cry

For justice long delayed.


O Baloch, your soul does not sleep—

It breathes in winds across the sand.

You are the promise time must keep,

You are the strength of this proud land.

So rise like hills that never bow,

Like waves that break but still return—

The flame is in your spirit now,

And tyrants fear the way you burn.


Let them ask, in days to come,

“Where bloomed such fearless, fiery flowers?”

And let the answer rise like drum:

From Baloch hearts, in darkest hours.

For freedom lives where hope won’t die,

And history bends to those who stand—

So raise your voice, and lift it high,

This earth is yours — your soul, your land.


Long live the voice of Balochistan.

No chain can hold a people whose hearts bloom in defiance.

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