Martyrs’ Day

Thy glasses now gather dust,

that once gave us clear vision,

Your woven dreams, a fashion,

which then adorned the nation,

Your idol, a weapon now crazy,

ideals so selfishly chosen,

Morals decorate the walls,

essence conveniently forgotten.

Your words, now a caged artwork,

which shook confinement mighty,

Quotes stud the chattering,

that once roared the skies lofty,

We lost your hard-earned sovereign,

in sheer ignorance and frenzy,

We made a mere brand out of you,

to quench our thirst, nasty.

You lived the sacrifice until death,

we just chant definition,

Utterly ashamed we are,

even to submit a confession,

Trapped we are in a quagmire,

leeches sucking the nation,

Help us, O Souls Supreme,

bless us with reincarnation.

■ Death Anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi

(Select lines from my English poetry book)

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