India mourns it's martyrs from land to sea -
they have fallen in flesh but in spirit free.
They made their mark in every spheres -
their glory always flow through our tears.
The bugles are sounded, it's a music still -
how pride swells inside, the families feel.
They died young; that's how they stay -
while commoners will grow old, they may.
True to the heart, their eyes had a glow -
they fell with bullets in, faces to their foe.
They will stay young and not grow old,
while we would as the seasons unfold.
They are past praise, age or any condemn,
while with sun and moon we remember them.
Some get their soil while others outside home -
our homage and respect the martyr's dome.
They are deep within us, a volcanic spring -
which gushes joys and tears as they bring.
We can't see them as they are out of sight -
like the sun can't see stars in the night.
We know this, since by nature it is a must,
that with time we will return to dust.
Those young stars will look upon our plain -
as they sail eternity, so they shall remain.
Prasenjit©2023
No comments:
Post a Comment