by britishmisk

If only you could see us now,
How much further we have fallen.
If you were to write your words today,
no one could have pretended to read them.
That is because they would have set the pages aflame,
Not that would have made much difference anyway.

Who are you with your complaint?
You could converse with God as an intimate friend.
We have no such luxury,
We’re too scared to go that far.
Philosophers and thinkers discuss you,
But the farmer remains perplexed.
Who is this man they speak of,
Whose photo is this they display?
Can he help me to grow my crops?
I don’t understand a single word that they say.

Truly they never understood you then,
More so even now.
They turned you into an idol,
What a disgrace that is for you.
Here take his poetry,
Turn it into a chant.
Make it into your mantra,
Pay no heed to what it says.
He talks about Brahmins,
Maybe he wants you to become one too.

Poet of a nation he never knew,
A nation never set eyes on,
Never what he imagined.
Here we’ll do the thinking,
We’ll build this great nation for you.
You just lay there and rest,
We’ll do all the hard work,
and take all your bribes for you too.
We’ll pay you back we promise,
We’re honest men we swear.

Your ashes are left in our hearts,
I’m sure there was once a flame.
There’s still smoke from this candle,
There was a moth here too I’m sure.
Majnun’s sighs have come to an end,
But in sleep he still dreams of Layla.
The nightingale got lost in the winter,
The rose will be back in spring.

Am I just dreaming. Or did you even exist at all?