Dr. Yogesh Sharma
Oh Krishna! Have Mercy - Poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma
Where are you lying, hiding your greeting?
Forgetting your devotees and their name,
Sagged and unknown to blessed meeting,
Beat an empty stomach, -are you still the same?
Over the years, looting and looting;
Dull-eared, dim-sighted, poor of mind and thought,
Encroached upon the bleeding nation, sweating;
Everything goes wrong, and nothing right is sought.
Old, the graybeard, aimless! Sad, indeed, all know them, -
Wrinkled, tottering, bent, forgetting and corrupt the prey;
But talk highly and falsely in speech, story, fable, picture, poem,
Oh! I have seen them since my birth day.
No one is here to listen to the pious proclamation,
Burnt the plants and shrubs where the butterflies play: -
Liars have blasted the peaceful nation,
Play havoc with the ideas of unfertilized clay.
To cry, in the silence, the national tune: -
Only the vulture dance again and again,
Happy are the jungles, the beasts and cruel men,
Oh, a biting wind swept the spiritual nation.
Our’s was a land blessed, she was a divine creation,
Great sages and angels rested on the way,
For a sacred nation, here temples clean the passion,
Created a paradise, where babies always at play.
Merit cries and honesty strives, but no one cares,
Sit and mourn by the ashes of the glorious past,
Spread their brutal hands over the withering embers,
Laugh only to kill, and shook the nation last.
With false but sweet words and a dirty broom,
They have no religion and have no vision,
One can see and hear the boom of the blood-lust groom,
But the witch-men play and dance all the creation.
With a thunder bolt, and a merry old song: -
Come the saffron clad angel with flute in hand,
With speed and sharply attractive ding dong,
Accompanied beautiful maidens with pearls in band.
Of the Lord then lean and laughed people down,
That made those tottering, sad-men smile;
His divine march began, down town;
And sing, walk with care, beware, beware.
Open the dark and cruel sky like an ugly veil,
With iron fist of steel He must be seated round,
And direct the misguided race to the right mail,
Oh Krishna! Have mercy on Indians’ wound.
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