The Cry And Resurrection Of England (A Mystical Call) Poem by Prabir Gayen

The Cry and Resurrection of England
(A Mystical Call)
By PRABIR GAYEN
(England's soul weeps, choked by the dark roots of false faith, as her blood runs cold in the hands of blind invaders.')

O England, thou whose past was carved in flame,
Now draped in shadow, thou dost stand alone,
Thy once bright shores are now a distant dream,
The songs of old forgotten, lost, and mute.
What poison creeps within thy tender veins,
What bitter root has buried in thy soul?
Thy gardens, once the cradle of the free,
Now yield the weeds that choke the heart's pure breath.
A silence falls upon thy windswept plains,
Where once the voices of the wise did rise,
Where words like fire did cleanse the ancient mind,
Now stilled, unmoving, as the moonless night.
Thy libraries, where wisdom once took flight,
Now stand like tombs where breath is held in chains;
The flames of Milton's rage, of Shakespeare's light,
Now flicker dim beneath the weight of time.

What hollow sound does echo in thy streets,
What shadows walk upon thy sacred ground?
Thy children no longer look with eager eyes
For stars to guide them through the endless dark.
The world once trembled at thy noble name,
Yet now thy breath is slow, thy limbs grown weak.
O England, is this death, or just a dream?
The poison spreads, and still, thou dost not speak.
But in the silence, evil grows in might,
A blind faith clings, not seeing the true light.
The spirit of thy past is slowly crushed,
By darkened hands that twist thy soul with lies.
The flame once bright now smolders in the dust,
As shadows fill thy heart, thy mind, thy skies.
Thou art a willing slave to hollow cries,
And in this cowardice, thy truth doth die.
For like the cowards of a distant land,
Thy children bow to falsehood, ‘neath the hand
That kills the soul, that blinds the heart to see,
England, once proud, now drowns in apathy.

Yet deep within, a spark still hides in thee,
A hidden fire beneath the ash of years,
A dream still stirs, a pulse still beats within
The silent soil where giants once did stand.
O rise, O England! Let thy voice return,
Let not thy blood be wasted in the dust.
The poets, the dreamers, the warriors of light,
They wait within thee, waiting to be born.
Let not thy silence drown the ancient cry!

For thou art more than what thy eyes behold,
More than the shadows creeping through thy halls.
Thy spirit, once a flame of light, now stirs,
Yet evil forces wear thy strength away.
What poison spreads through thy once vibrant veins,
As foreign winds invade thy sacred shores?
The worth of all thy masters, great and true,
Is lost to those who seek to twist thy soul.
The voices of thy poets, once divine,
Now muffled by the weight of hollow cries.
Let not the darkness blind thee to thy past,
Nor let the poison claim thy sacred heart.
For in thy veins runs fire, not fear, not death,
A force that once did shake the very earth!

Awake, O England! Shake the chains away!
Remember those who called thee once to rise,
The strength of Shakespeare, whose word lit the dawn,
The fury of Milton, the light of Keats,
The vision of Shelley, the calm of Wordsworth.
The wisdom of Bacon, the fire of Byron,
The grace of Coleridge, the song of Auden—
They all lie in thee, waiting for the day
When thou dost rise, as thou hast risen before.

And let thy children born of this new dawn
Be crowned with truth, with justice, and with light.
Let them speak the words that shall heal the world,
The voice of Krishna, the strength of Vivekananda,
The wisdom of Aurobindo, born anew.
Let thy hands rebuild the broken gates of time,
And let the sun of England rise again!

O England, thou art not lost, but sleeping,
A dream within a dream, yet waking still.
The stars await thee—thy time is not past!
Rise up and show the world thy sacred dance,
The dance of light, of beauty, of the soul,
The dance of science, love, and art reborn,
For in thy rise, the world shall rise again.
****
@Prabir Gayen
28April /2025/11: 10 AM