On the body of my country

Tanks of water are red wounds

Rivers are flowing blood

Yielding to the voices of the flesh

Here the sky sold away its sun for a fistful of stars

Paper promises have piled up into Himalayan hills

The wasted ink makes a sea –

And dreams of the nation

Are going into caves of paper to renounce the world

Some have jumped into the ink and relinquished life

Now the iron in the country goes to make prison bars

Leaving none to make railways

Farmer bears the plough

Like Jesus bore the cross

In the temple of this nation

The deity has been digested

Now hungry for another god 

-Seshendra Sharma

http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com