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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I hear your cries echo through the corridors of time. For three thousand years, hope was stolen, your humanity bartered away like coin in a market. They branded you untouchable, yet you are the pulse of the earth, the dark soil from which all life is born. Look at them— they build temples of stone but crush the living temple of flesh. They parade in garments of purity, yet purity does not dwell in their hearts. They call themselves white, forgetting that white is the shroud of death, while black is the womb of creation. India sings of democracy— but only on paper, while in the streets, the Dalit drink from poisoned wells and walk with chains invisible yet heavier than iron. O land of sages and scriptures, why do you blind your eyes to your own children? But listen— karma is a wheel that never sleeps. The wheel turns, and the high will fall, the low will rise. The first shall stumble into the dust, and the last shall be crowned with dawn. Nothing remains the same beneath the cosmos. Your oppressors believe night is eternal, but even the longest shadow bows to the morning sun. Suffering is the blacksmith— it tempers your soul like steel in fire. They see permanence in your chains, yet permanence does not exist in the universe. O Dalit, sons and daughters of destiny— do not believe the lie of exile. Nature was not foolish to birth you. You are the missing verse in the unfinished hymn of India. She dreams of greatness, but her dream is hollow until your dignity is restored. The beauty of the world is not found in sameness, but in the symphony of differences. And so I say to you— though the night is heavy with sorrow, though the stars seem far and dim, tomorrow freedom will come, and the chains will fall like dust before the wind.
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