Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
The Light of India
I heard you, gotcha, shoulders hung, all blue.
5 days match, squeezed to 3.
I guessed the Blue was screwed badly.
On a field somewhere, pitch black everywhere.
I don't blame the blue. I don't understand the Blue Brigade.
They are not red, it's not the Fire Brigade.
I am not a fan, just an ordinary man, therefore hung on the ceiling,
Rotating, airing, ranting and squeaking.
When there is no Diwali and Crackers burst,
Its either Blue, or Green, Aussies you guys are yellow,
Haven't you heard that's a dirty fellow?
If it is not about colors, then it's more mundane, not national passion,
But the loins of the Nation, Someone doing the I Do's and forgetting the Don't's,
Always heat in the magic of wants.
If not the loin, then it has to be some lion,
Nation goes on Mute as a bloke got an electoral erection.
Comments about this poem (The Light of India by Hardik Vaidya )
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