Parched,
thirsty they stare at the sky,
Knowing their
masters will never care,
Barren land,
barren dreams,
Even death
itself is thirsty there.
Drinking filth
and living hell,
Eyes crying
but tears don’t fall,
Their leaders
busy playing violence,
No one they
trusted carries balls.
Watches Shivaji
from heavens high,
Pride sinking
low in shame,
The land he
shed his blood for,
Lies thirsty,
writhing in pain.
Not far from
where the death does walk,
Their masters
build a rich man’s hill,
Dining,
wining, breathing power,
While farmers
land lies untilled.
He who feeds
the hungry us,
Starving,
watches in despair,
Hoping for
the safari suits,
To wake up,
maybe grow a pair.
And lost are
few in glamour and fame,
Not far from
them, lives are cursed,
Dancing,
singing, living in style,
Stuffing lives
in their purse.
Not one
voice heard, not a cry made,
No one
stepped out to raise a shout,
Mumbai lives
the luxurious nights,
Maharashtra spends
the days in drought.
 | |
| Drying Wells |
 | |
| Water Scarcity |
No comments:
Post a Comment