When I listen to those finger pointing songs
I think of you, Mr. Patriot and
Wanted to blame you hard: Where were you,
For so long, to comfort these bleeding
In the hills, in the plain, and in my heart
Should I tell you, Mr. Patriot
That we are late for the occasion
To sing our patriotic songs and convince them
That we are correct and true like morning sun!
Listening to those songs,
I think of the rot and dirt and the irritation
And numerous gentlemen with outrageous reputation
You know, they too called themselves patriots
I guess, might be of a different ilk, unlike you
I know, I even heard you singing in pain
For what you have seen in the dead men
For what you have heard from the wails of widows
But these patriots, they praise the death and
Never hesitate to hold the hands of widows;
What a shame, they even promise the compensation
Like poll-time gimmicks and rigged ballot paper
What a shame, they measure the virtues of the decease
And nobody was there to throw him a shoe!
Mr. Patriot, do you still think
Words are enough to awake the sleep and
Restore the hearty contempt for them
To feel alive again, for the endangered species? Or,
Do you still fear those cheap bullets and
Self-styled reformists who can’t read
What you have written, thinking
You are the only son of your parents?
Well, I too start writing poems
Voluminous poems on ghastly jokes, like
Death, self-respect and patriotism; you know
For us endangered species, these are jokes
Even to think of a natural death,
Even to talk about self-respect and
There is not a single parlance on patriotism, and
I incite myself, waiting for you!
