In the shadows of Neruda’s Bolivar
And in anguish of stutter winds
In uncertainties of terror, fears and intimidation,
I kept my words silent;
No bigger coward than a mum poet;
No more.
Faiz makes the blood ridden chains
Utter a song of rising bird;
A suppressed voice wanting to
Break away to freedom of dawn;
A thirsty dawn
Like song of Blood strokes;
Drawing from the well of democracy
With some fear, chains, tear gas, and
Hope, few lathis and of course bullets,
the pulley attached to the rope
wishes we were not the only law abiding
men, women and queer.
Govind, Gauri, Dabholkar, Kalburgi, Rohit
Live in us as an awaken bird,
Like the winds of autumn liberate
dead leaves
Our birds have liberated us from Bhagwa and orthodoxy.
Awakening our eyes with the fist of liberty,
The dawn is upon us,
Let’s play the song of blood strokes.
From the brushes made from our feathers,
We’ll paint a new dawn.
It is not an anti-national project.
It is not of a bloody revolution,
It is of Ambedkarian reorientation,
Of reclaiming equality, fraternity and liberty,
And of course of our dignity.
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