A Sad Political Poem

Ay! Where’s gone that eyes-smile, you gave me? Why are you for few days badly brooding! See! This lovely land’s ours; its jungles belong to us, And we, You and I, Together own them. There the meadows there the gardens All ours. Let them! The sensitive-Indian-soldiers stand on street sides— Ashamed! As the uninvited guests. Well! They themselves feel They shouldn’t have wandered As mad lovers in their beloveds’ streets, And been laughed over! Or pitied. And their ignorant patriotic fellows Be overly jealous of us For their fatherland’s nowhere seen In the beauty’s ranking And ours is Ah! On top! Nor can they find there, in their mistresses, O yes! Even a thousandth of your face! Or either our well-wishers—across Or their any so-called friend, One day very soon, Shall all leave us—angrily alone. And our Old King shall return His kingdom in the fort On there the beautiful mount In the valley’s heart. And we will see him Tears rolling down our face With roses’ garlands And an ode to his grace. Then Art in all forms Shall flourish again, The Chinese shall travel snowy ways—again, The Persians shall sail seas And visit us, and beseech; Our saints will preach them, Artists will teach. And we shall surely be seeing every evening In that last garden And I will write on you Every new day A new verse.