Remnants of ghastly dyer consequences,
Echoes of thousands murdered cold by own,
Smell of that garden filled with veins and blood,
Not too far from the ground zero of 1919,
Stand my people in shabby torn clothes,
Dragged, insulted, assaulted, slapped and beaten,
Some by the khakis, some by the saffron goons,
But all by the failed few traitors of my nation.

Chanting name of that one dignified warrior,
With heinous conduct of ten headed demon,
Hordes despise the core teachings of our epics,
Poets and bards have written since time immemorial,
Those who remove Raavn from their corrupted minds,
They can claim footsteps to the ideals of beloved Ram.

Without the vocal chords of our existence,
We are just droves of sheep in plain sight,
Waiting for commands from one Mr. Jones,
Farming the lands for his daily supper,
In false promises of swaths of divine butter,
We are granted but a few grains and crupper;

Mr. Jones has since been long thrown away,
But the ruling class shove the burden to us arcade,
While they sleep in their golden crib hand made,
We bang the steel pots for gods to protect,
While they feast in the riches of our mines collect,
Are they pigs in disguise, or are they demons in demise,
They have maimed the tenets of my nation in reprise.

In the awakenings of lathis, whistles,
In the deafening chaos of man versus man,
One tiny slender tender girl raises her voice aloud,
And asks my lordship who does this land belongs to?

It belongs to the voices cracked,
Wide open in daylight,
It belongs to the soul of a entire nation
Silenced by force,
It belongs to every woman feeling a
Draupadi by her protectors,
It belongs to every Bhim and Bhagat who,
Stood their ideals without haste;
It belongs to every Ram and Ashfaq who,
Gave their lives for harmony;
It belongs to you and me my comrades,
In blood, in vans, in veins, in chants,
It belongs to you and me my comrades,
In horns, in flutes, in choirs,
It belongs to you and me my comrades
It belongs to you and me my comrades….

© Rakesh Bal.