Finally.... "Iraq was my mistake!"
http://go.reuters.com/newsArticle.jhtml?type=topNews&storyID=10589624
Friday, December 16, 2005
Monday, December 05, 2005
Friday, December 02, 2005
INDIAN
Went ahead to join bits and pieces... I am not a good poet... so pls bear with me
I am an Indian.
My father was a son of the Revolution.
My mother was a colonial dame.
One of my ancestors pitched a insurgence.
Another stood his ground with Netaji Bose;
Another hungered with Gandhiji in a Satyagraha.
My forefathers were India in the making.
They spoke in her council halls!
They died on her battlefields.
They commanded her ships!
They cleared the forests.
Dawns reddened and paled.
Staunch hearts of mine beat fast
Keen eyes of mine forsaw her greater glory:
The sweep of her seas,
The plenty of her plains,
The man-hives in her billion-wired cities.
Every drop of blood in me holds a heritage of patriotism!
I am an Indian!
I am an Indian!
My father was an atom of dust,
My mother, a straw in the wind
To his Serene Majesty.
One of my ancestors died in the fields of tobacco;
Another was crippled for life by twenty blows of the knot;
Another was killed, defending his home during the massacre.
The history of my ancestors is a trail of blood
To the palace-gate of the Great Queen.
But, then the dream came---
The dream of India.
In the light of Gandhiji's struggle,
The atom of dust became a man
And the straw in the wind became a woman
For the first time.
See, said my father, pointing to the flag that fluttered near,
"That flag of with orange, white and green is yours;
It is the emblem of the promised land.
It means, my son, the hope of humanity.
Live for it---die for it!"
Under the open sky of my new country,
I swore to do so,
And every drop of blood in me
Will keep that vow.
I am proud of my future.
I am an Indian.
Went ahead to join bits and pieces... I am not a good poet... so pls bear with me
I am an Indian.
My father was a son of the Revolution.
My mother was a colonial dame.
One of my ancestors pitched a insurgence.
Another stood his ground with Netaji Bose;
Another hungered with Gandhiji in a Satyagraha.
My forefathers were India in the making.
They spoke in her council halls!
They died on her battlefields.
They commanded her ships!
They cleared the forests.
Dawns reddened and paled.
Staunch hearts of mine beat fast
Keen eyes of mine forsaw her greater glory:
The sweep of her seas,
The plenty of her plains,
The man-hives in her billion-wired cities.
Every drop of blood in me holds a heritage of patriotism!
I am an Indian!
I am an Indian!
My father was an atom of dust,
My mother, a straw in the wind
To his Serene Majesty.
One of my ancestors died in the fields of tobacco;
Another was crippled for life by twenty blows of the knot;
Another was killed, defending his home during the massacre.
The history of my ancestors is a trail of blood
To the palace-gate of the Great Queen.
But, then the dream came---
The dream of India.
In the light of Gandhiji's struggle,
The atom of dust became a man
And the straw in the wind became a woman
For the first time.
See, said my father, pointing to the flag that fluttered near,
"That flag of with orange, white and green is yours;
It is the emblem of the promised land.
It means, my son, the hope of humanity.
Live for it---die for it!"
Under the open sky of my new country,
I swore to do so,
And every drop of blood in me
Will keep that vow.
I am proud of my future.
I am an Indian.
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