Land for grabs, in a lost broken wasteland
Of jumbled lineage, tattered deeds,
Detained citizens. Unborn, my offspring weeps
For the future to be. Que sera sera.
The moguls and mongals tear hair for fresh land.
Detained, dying weakling, like in
Caucasian Circle most ruthlessly deprived of
The enemy of the state, tell me are you fed, then?
Tell me what you feel like — Is Grusha’s milk warm?
Does it breed for you dreams?
No, that impulse is lost for you.
That heritage won’t revive.
“Uthuru Vasanthaya” is for a North that like
The ball of the eye, was plucked out from your heart
And imprisoned miles apart.