Ten days have passed, and yet the wave
You tried to stem continues to grow.
Undefeated by water, wounds or words,
They trudge on, lifting soil-hardened hands
Together: does Lok Kalyan Marg hear them roar,
Or is it enshrined still in the silence you seek?
Do you fear, sir, the price of what your people seek?
The questions they ask cannot now be waved
Away, or drowned by your propaganda machines' roar.
Direst apologies, sir, for the dissent that grows,
For the milling masses that refuse to kiss your hand-
But "give us our rights" aren't dirty words.
Do you dread the weight of the words
That unwavering voices continue to seek?
You thrust batons and gas shells into hands
That cannot clutch at the crest of this wave.
Is your kisaan only worth what he grows?
In the face of travesty, sir, even the meekest roar.
Uninformed rebels, your primetime mouthpieces roar,
Separatists, your legion spreads the sneaky word.
When, sir, will your famously broad chest grow
A conscience, or compunction? As you squabble and seek
Malformed agenda to turn this tidal wave,
Your subverts offer love and langar with folded hands.
You witness spectacles and clap your hands,
Even as whispers twist into a resounding roar;
Smile, sir, nod and give the screen a wave,
And insist you can never hear a dissident word.
The broadcast, of course, will never seek
To let this foolish antinationalism grow.
Sooner or later, sir, you'll find, people outgrow
The tridents of hate you place in their hands,
And instead they begin to dare and seek
Explanations, with impunity and furore.
I hope, sir, your speeches have enough words
To keep you from capsizing in the next wave.
As we grow together and stage an uproar
We join hands and words, we come together
Seeking succour, we wave at you. Inquilaab.
