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.