Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
To cowards with love
I am a fair man,
Don't count me with the turkeys who dig their heads in sand.
I have the mind of an American,
The roots of an Indian, by that I do not mean a red Indian.
I was born on the west coast, in a small town that no one knew,
I was raised on the east coast,
In the Babylon of human thought, the world knew as Calcutta.
I got my kicks in the gas chambers of west coast,
A city I love which was called Bombay, Now called Mumbai.
If you have a difference of opinion,
Come forth be an American, does not matter what's your opinion,
Let the stars shine in you,
Be a man and don't hide in the bush,
Don't eat that god damnd khous khous,
And fire your farts at random shoots.
I never ran.
I never eloped to the never never land.
I dig my heels, in the dirt and grit,
In the mud and pungent rotten flesh of my own proud country,
Be an Arjuna.
Evoke your Mahabharata.
Lift your Gandeeva.
Will shred you into a billion pieces,
On merit and merit alone,
And so help me god.
Comments about this poem (To cowards with love by Hardik Vaidya )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley