When borders
are warmed by the war,
Heart beats
hard and blood is boiled,
When lives
are laid down at the altar,
Only then our
patriotism begins to rise.
The houses
of heroes are thronged,
Rallies are
held, rewards announced,
Tears are
shed, speeches are made,
Guns stop
and none is around.
Ashes cool
and none care for them,
Who cares
for those real sons of soil?
Who cares
for those they left behind?
Why does then,
our patriotism dies?
What kind of
love for country is this?
What kind of
unworthy sons we are?
We strangulate
our mother every-day,
We fast for
her during the war.
On august
the 15th and 26th Jan,
And when a
war movie is screened,
We chant the
praise of motherland,
And rest
days we forget it seems.
Songs are
played and words are said,
Only to be
forgotten the day after,
The paper
flag that flutters with pride,
Is dumped
around hither and thither.
What kind of
patriotism is this?
Selfish and
opportunistic to core,
Our love is
like those waves in sea,
Rising high
and dying on shore.
Will times
change, will the day come?
When patriotism
will be redefined,
When we will
rise above the self,
The day
mother India will smile.
great work.
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