When our men had built the vessels,
To travel across the Indian Ocean,
To procure the pearls and corals,
To make the jewels to decorate the consorts,
Of Gods, our pre puberty and teen aged wives,
Shed the tears to say good bye to their bolsters,
Of the nights, but the mighty masters of the days,
Many had returned to see their aging wives,
A few never bothered of the souls they left behind,
The fear, anger, anxiety and uncertainties,
Those are coded in their genes and our mothers are too weak,
To send their children abroad to work and worry alone,
To join the clubs of the loners, our IQ is not low,
We are not greedy to call everything as me, myself and I,
What is wrong with my country?
What is wrong with my country?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem