Besides a black road, I moan looking down,
Ocean of people from village and town,
On other days busy bees used to run and pass,
To work, studies and to love mass,
There I stand, lonely, prodding sad score,
Saw scholars, teachers and youth crying next door,
Now by the babu’s world, no body can see,
Even God is worried not to see one and me.
Images false shown taken from hidden sides,
Mirroring the nation beautiful and wide,
Demy gods couching false glory, sitting beside,
Seated in the earthly heaven, boasting joy ride,
Till nation is fried in ash tray by,
But they remain a holy catholic never tell a lie.
DR. YOGESH SHARMA
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem