When morning was child, man bathed in the ancient Ganges,
Now he worships the burning orb of mid-noon sun.
Mankind moved to the threshold of another era and shattered
The fears hatched in our blood by old beliefs,
In fury today, man measures the planet with the third eye
Between his brow. His conscience crows becoming a cock,
Barks becoming a dog, sings becoming a bird. There is nothing
That the conscience will not become for this country.
We are neither fools nor rich, to indulge in lengthy arguments
About god, ours are hands, which must work to live. One who has skill
To turn earth into fruit and grain, need not lose his heart.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: revolutionary