No War But Class War

How do you view yourself? Steady gaze that drags you into the puddle. The rains have unleashed what remains underneath the facade of metropolitan dazzle. Puddles black as the pupils that gaze into the sewers, Bodies descend into the horrors Ammonia and methane, lungs that burn and smoke that becomes the breathe of life Lives that await nothing but the blessing of death. To scavenge the spiteful wastes of a society in haste, A society that strangles its children, Contamination and disease Burnt crops and pain Suicide harvest The baskets of shame And no better in the forests Lie there evermore horrors An adivasi caught in death's silence Under the boots of the green menace Forest and mineral, Cages and prisoners, Extra judicial murders, Steeped in tradition of Rape, loot and plunder, the culture of hindustan. Where bullets are exchanged and the grip on the stones are loosened, as they roll down when dropped, So do the bodies. the wails of wives and mothers, Of daughters, of grandmothers begin to fill the sky, the martyrs who are now sons of an echoe far and beyond. Where ruby red drops fall on the snow, Winter in the valley where the stench of the dead meet the resilience of the living Yet every death only screams the victory of this echo, The echo that will engulf us all The echo of 'azaadi' long into the night An incendiary chant of the people who will rise, out of the gutters, out of the forest, And shall rise out of the valley of death and out of the shackles of the farms, Free from the death grip of the land lords, free from the bullets of the uniformed assasins. Free to hoist the emblazoned red into the sky to usher in a new world, to shatter the old to annhilate the beasts that have so far reigned supreme.