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.
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