Poor Poem by Kanishka SricharanPratap

We are your brothers,
For you
We hold umbrella.

Looting and looting you
We are rich,
Opened media houses
Became leaders.
Upheld the pride of the nation.

Now a little
Our testicle
Has got into a crusher...
For whom,
He has so much water!
Telling us:
'You are poor.'

Wake up...
Rise... rise
Brothers,
Run to us...
We use matchstick
You pour petrol,
Die.

Revolt...
Uphold the pride of the nation.


Translated from Odia by
Subash Chandra Mohapatra