|The Lost Spirit Of India
Author: Hargan007 PM
A mournful take on the lack of national pride and respect in India today as opposed to the time of the freedom struggle...Rated: Fiction K - English - Poetry - Words: 406 - Published: 08-24-11 - Status: Complete - id: 2946123
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
It was I who lived in the saffron robe,
It was I who held up the minarets proud.
It was I who adorned the saviour on the cross,
The gurudwaras,synagogues and all places of God!
I was robed with culture and tradition.
Millenia old,still followed with devotion.
Albeit with changes,due to ingredients many,
A culture like a multi layered cake.
The oppression of the British could not break me,
Although like Prometheus was I tortured.
Their determination to crush me only made me stronger,
Muscles harder ,and endurance longer
It was I in the hearts of the incensed soldiers
As they stormed the forts and fought the foreign rulers
The boatmen who refused the British passage,
And the countless martyrs in the battle.
So too in the hearts of stalwarts many,
Like Gandhi, Nehru and Bose-there are plenty!
I gave them the strength to face the lathis
Imprisonments, beatings and beatings from the police
As the sacred tricolour fluttered on high,
It was I who made their hearts do the same.
So too when they heard the sacred song
Authored by one of worldwide renown
But alas! I shudder to think
How low today my standing has sunk
For though the British could not harm me themselves,
In the end they made me harm myself.
In my hour of freedom I was ripped apart
Mutilated handicapped and forever scarred.
A people who once united had upheld me,
Now like barbarians fought each other.
Now nigh seventy years have passed,
And my unhealed wounds do still fester.
And I am weak and all but forgotten.
Tossed in a corner and rarely remembered
The children of my people do live on,
In deepest poverty and prosperity alike.
It does pain me grievously to say,
I am treated like they treat their poor!
They do mock the ones who came before
And my robe of culture is now but a rag
I am tossed in the darkest holes,
Ushered forth but a few times a year.
The nation is looted by people filled with lust.
Who claim to represent the heroes of old.
I do break down to see my nation
But Alas! There is no one to see my tears!
I am left in my rags to rot.
With sweet memories of times gone by.
I wish I could say I do see light.
But I cannot! This tunnel seems to have no end!