How can I hold myself from singing the real song?
My soul can no longer bear its weight, this huge country
Lies like a veritable railway platform on my chest.
I must reveal the real story of these ostentatious trains that
Parade before us; they are not carrying the people, they
Are carrying the governments of the day.

Comrade, don’t remain still in the egg. For
How can the egg fly? Do not make your face like
The evidence of a lost empire. Remember, the working muscles
Are not graveyards of aspirations-

It is only to make your wings that my window keeps
Sleepless all the night; when dawn opens its eyes
We are seen by it, beside a rickety lamp-myself and my tools of poetry.

The target of my clenched fists, is only one
Always and that is he! Only the hands of his chair hold the fat greasy body
Of that beast, otherwise long ago he would have been the prey
To the inexorable force of earth’s gravitation

If he does not let my children eat their food,
I will make the earth drink his blood.
My poetry does not fly any flag. But
My hands are the swords of my nation.

-Seshendra Sharma