Alone in the lonely crowd,
in foolishness feeling proud.
Our toil, blood and sweat,
for centuries did wait.
Voice suppressed to the core,
that time and again did roar.
Our hearts meant to trust,
were left forever to rust.
Hands that fold in prayer,
can dethrone the betrayer.
"Rights" are rightfully ours,
demanded for toiling hours.
What is ours in heat 'n' dust,
will surely be ours at last.
Give the tyrants no choice,
but to accept our rightful voice.
Prasenjit©1997-2011
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