Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

My Muslim blood, you are born of my mothers flesh and her bones.
Do not be afraid, do not be enslaved.
Till I am alive,
You are assured of a speaker,
A man who will shout from the roof tops of his ears,
That he is proud of Ghalib, as much as of Faiz,
And Kaifee Azmee together with Akhtar,
Made his combined heritage a matter of privilege.
If I am shot, dead, cold, and I rot,
Though I will want to be burnt,
I the holy fire that's what is my fathers tounge, I love it, just as I love you,
I don't find it bad, I find it as erotic as making love,
To one I never got but consumed.
On my ashes will grow a Geeta, a Quran.
A song that was never written nor sung,
But it will echo in your souls,
While you look west and pay respects to Mecca,
And as a dead forgotten Hindu I will sob tears to lord Shiva.