O’ Mangaley! O’ true Son of the Soil!

Whole day in the field you toil

clad in hope, and spade compost

into the vegetable beds, lulled by

an ambrosia - the wine of your sweat.

You cling to the soil evermore, and

let the Sun dive in your body and bathe.

You dig the core of the Earth, on and on

and plant the seeds of unison to feed them all.

O’ Mangaley! O’ true Son of the Soil!

Master of your own destiny you are!

You are not an idle rainbow in the sky

nor you are a mere ghost in disguise.

You are a poem in my eyes.

O’ Mangaley! The waltz of your hoe

emancipates the soul of the soil

- gives birth to the green tomorrow

and every stroke from your spade

adds ghee to the lantern of their faith.

O’ Mangaley! O’ true Son of the Soil!

You toil hard everyday to garden this earth

and teach them all to fight with poverty and loss,

and live life in unity and in peace among men.

O’ Mangaley!

May you blossom for ever!

We feel you, - in every grain,

in every inch of the soil

in every murmuring brooks

and in every fold of the cabbage

in the village of “Baluwa.”

O’ Mangaley! O’ true Son of the Soil!

I bow before you, and salute both- the soil and you.