Sunday, April 17, 2011


No RDX bombs in those tender little hands

let sweet smelling jasmines bloom

on those floral beds

Declare in your sweet Mother tongue

Independence to those little hands

From carrying backbreaking convent bags

Don’t ask those tender minds,

copywrite elite’s vanity fair

train them to climb the ladder of life

rung by rung

to those yelling ugly mouths

in sacred legislative houses

teach new lessons with honed

sickle heads

let the blood rills flowing

from the eyes of injured roses

become confident rivers

of self-esteem

why try to smell scent

from dead paper flowers

the spring-time has dawned

right in front of your threshold

why do you search for your own beauty

in mirror; instead of looking straight at yourself

is this not self-delusion?

Chase away the darkness of your mind

By lighting the lamp of righteousness

Listen to those murmurs your soul is making

Like a patient on death bed

And touch for once you bosom and muse

How much of history

You are leaving for your posterity

Translation: Sathyanarayana.M.V.S,India

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