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 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
She continues to live:
in hope of revival,
in hope of freedom,
in hope of response from her children,
patiently waiting for those special children yet to be born..... 
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