Birendra Chattopadhyay
My India
My India
Is of 50 million
Scantily clad humans
Who toil hard in the sun
All day.
And then
Do not sleep.
For hunger or cold;
Compels them to stay awake.
Kings come and go.
Jealousy and hatred
Pollute the pages of
History.
Turns the water slimy.
Shroud air with
Impenetrable smog.
Gradually.
Conspiracies are all around.
Ravings of greedy, power-mongers
Are all around.
Battle and famine come
Together
With arms locked
In warm embrace.
Venomous fangs
Haunt the land.
And Tiger
Strikes terror.
My India knows not them
Defies their summons
Her children still shiver
In hunger,
In biting cold, amidst pummeling
From all sides.
But innocent they are
And twined in fraternal bonds.
Translated by Sourjya Roy
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