Manas Rastogi (12th August,1997 / Delhi)

Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies
Pray to the morning lights,
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn
Like a child that has cried all night.

Come, let us gather our nets from the shore,
And set our catamarans free,
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide,
For we are the sons of the sea.

No longer delay, let us hasten away
In the track of the seagull's call;
The sea is our mother, the cloud our brother,
The waves are our comrades all.

What thoush we toss at the fall of the sun
Where the hand of the sea-god drives?
He who holds the storm by his hair
Will hide n his breast our lives.

Sweet is the shade of the coconut glade,
And the scent of the mango grove,
And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon
With the sound of the voices we love.

But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray,
And the dance of the wild foam's glee:
Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge,
Where the low sky mates with the sea.