The garb of gloom an afternoon wore,
A central edifice saw men galore,
Colors of hatred the banners wore,
On the streets the hooligans strode,
A widow expired that very day,
Not her first demise many people say.
She had a family pretty outsized,
First-cousins two, now outlying,
Sons hundred million when widowed,
Successors countless each son sowed,
Her husband held captive by the queen’s men,
Was later massacred by kin’s selfish yen.
Once in half a decade her descendants scuffle,
With whom she stays longest is their rationale,
Accolades for her, periodically they compose,
With caste, creed and region they make them verbose,
Growth, welfare and peace melodiously blend,
As their symphonies through every direction wend.
Ignorance since eternity ensures ensnarement,
In a slumber deep enough, it’s a five year torment,
With poverty and illiteracy they deliver gores lethal,
With Religion, Region and corruption they put up a scene abysmal,
Her grand-nephews overwhelmingly lubricate the pyre,
Apathy tranquilizes her kin as they witness the dire.
Exterminated over the years there’s little spirit to spare,
Yet she resurrects over witnessing her broods’ despair,
A grandchild compassionate and fearless she hopes to see,
The memoirs of Bhagads and Azads from her mind won’t flee,
With tearful eyes she silently weeps,
She awaits crucifier again, her children deep asleep.