BADRI RAINA | Caravan Daily
These are the Ides of March,
A hint of Spring is in the air;
An Easterly from Gorakhpur
Sings “Tyranny’s end is near.”
A scent of flowers from Phulpur
Sweetens, spreads the Easterly;
Araria says “I stand my ground,”
The Republic gives thanks to vox populi.
A million utterances assail
I AM THAT I AM;
Patchwork cunning comes apart
As pent-up miseries breach the dam.
Alas how the human gods forget
That oppressions have a season;
Come the time their fearsome frauds
Crumble to common reason.
Then the little man’s simple posers
Hollow the pretence of majesty,
The concocted robes of pre-eminence
Slip, revealing perfidy.
May the summer, Autumn, Winter
Give us a perpetual Spring;
May fear and hate be buried deep,
May love and justice reign as king.
