India, an idea, is the plasticine of a few
Who mould it as per leader's mind
And shout from every pulpit: it's true.
Freedom indeed it is for them, and the led blind;
Blasphemy if you call their myth
Or uncover their ugly truth.
Petty leaders battle for power,
No mercy to each other shown,
Ever slicing India, tinier pieces to own;
But fearful of neighbours' guts and gun,
And wrapped in the vote-god toe to head,
Dead doves they are - how own loss they dread.
Sedition is new heaven of freedom,
‘Hate' its hate-filled line, minority
Dog tag a badge of honour, majority
A dirty slur; ‘The Red Saree' troublesome
Locked away, ‘Broken Republic' given wing;
Self is the new India, Singh its dummy king.
Asurs alone churn the ocean - the serpent
Coils devs long beaten and quite bent -
Bringing up with wine much venin given vent.
No hiss to alert fools he waits, silent,
For their fall; if he is not soon cut in two,
He will get India, the nectar pot, anew.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem