O Parents
of the world you are
Like the
sun unto the lotuses
Who like
their marsh-born counterparts
Bloom in
the muddy realities
You have
made our hearts of wood and fire
And our
minds of lightning and steel
Yet in your
mercy left us afloat
Like yachts
in choppy seas
The heart
knows all but does not infer,
It grows
neither like rows of obedient corn,
Nor like
the potatoes of rebellion,
It worships
regardless of quality.
But where
the heart is fickle,
The head is
not; It is like an acorn,
It sprouts
only on fertile soil,
And once
germinated, cannot be uprooted.
In your
wisdom you have severed,
The mortal
ties between my beloved and me
You have
left me alive, and useful still,
And I must
stand up and think of India.
Although I
will yet forge more friends,
In the
fuming furnace of adversity,
How will I
console my widowed mind
Where will
I find such quality?
