Independence
She wants Freedom She is our mother, our holy land How free she is, I don’t understand I don’t understand the rules of our land, So poor, so depraved, crafted with a shaking hand Just like our mother cries when we are hurt She too mourns: when someone is hurt, when someone is raped and thrown into a drain, when a farmer kills self in paucity of grain, when poor gets poorer and disparity becomes steep, when a homeless man is killed while asleep, when a soldier is beheaded at the border, when relations with neighbors go out of order Our mother wails, she cries sadly Tears of helplessness flow incessantly Seldom do we see or feel her cry We neither feel the need, nor do we try She looks stunning though, a thing of incredible beauty A countenance full of grace, peace and serenity Eyes like saline seas, mysterious and misty Swelling with heavy tears but holding them tightly just managing to keep her face pure and pretty Sh