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?