Dear India, I am Carved Out of This Soil, How Can You Toss me Out?

My Dust, My Soil

I am carved out of this soil,
How can you toss me out?

I am here, I was here and I shall ever be here.
I died to melt away in this dust,
Just to rise from this dust again & again.

Centuries & centuries have gone by,
Rivers have moved to other paths.
Cities got buried under tons of soil,
People came, kings came,
Kingdoms came, Kingdoms crumbled.

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What remains but was me.
I keep sprouting out of this dust,
Every iota of this soil has me in it.

I am Rama, I was banished from Ayodhya,
But I returned to the bursting crackers.

I am Krishna, Kansa attempted to finish,
Only to be decimated by me.

Armies came to demolish all,
Only to be dissolved in this very soil.

The very soil sprang me up again & again,
I have many names,
Ram, Krishna, Sita, Radha, Mustafa, Khadija.

But what remains ever is this very soil,
And when one man drew a line on this soil.

Asking me to move to the other side of the line,
I just refused.
I rejected what he declared.
I clung to this very dust.

As my every iota,
Is made of nothing but this dust.

Now you decide to banish me from this soil.
Can you?

I am this soil,
I am carved out of this dust.

How can you toss me out?
I dare you to try it.

Kings came, kingdoms banished,
But what remains ever is the truth.

And that truth is me.

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