This Independence Day, we walk in a garden
where once a graveyard stood,
its soil, rich with the blood of martyrs,
now blooms with flowers—
each petal a memory,
each stem a sacrifice,
given gladly so beauty could rise.

We bow to these blossoms,
to dreams rooted deep,
to the life we call Aazadi,
nurtured by the hands
that turned death into a living garden,
where hope grows free.

Proud, yes, we are.
For walking among these sacred blooms,
for carrying the scent of their sacrifice,...