On the body of my country
Tanks of water are red wounds
Rivers are flowing blood
Yielding to the voices of the flesh
Here the sky sold away its sun for a fistful of stars
Paper promises have piled up into Himalayan hills
The wasted ink makes a sea
And dreams of the nation
Are going into caves of paper to renounce the world
Some have jumped into the ink and relinquished life
Now the iron in the country goes to make prison bars
Leaving none to make railways
Farmer bears the plough
Like Jesus bore the cross
In the temple of this nation
The deity has been digested
Now hungry for another god