Adorned in dirt and mud she
lies,
Yet a feast she is for the foreign eyes.
The Ocean stands taller beside her,
But no salty water will she deliver.
Here majestic backwaters and paddy fields we see,
Here all gods are revered for men are free.
Here cuckoo alone do not sing,
Nor men alone take everything.
Above the gods marvels at her story,
Where she turns green into gold, not for glory
But to feed all those who hunger,
Even the industrialist who begets her anger.
In winter her children sows,
In summer she sweeps out their sorrows.
In monsoon she watches them weep,
And that pain forever will she keep.
A curse monsoon is for her children,
Her water will then be a burden.
Ailments and death begins their hunt,
And the gods then seem not so benevolent.
Now changed are her children, as she look
They fill her veins with filth and muck.
Once everything she could purify,
Now nothing can she fructify.
She could nourish them well,
Until they brought the fertilizers and she fell.
The stings of chemicals leave her in pain,
And her cries are unheard and are in vain.
Yet a child or two keeps their love,
They pray for her to the gods above.
He harms not her with chemicals crass,
Nor dig her up and wealth amass.
Amidst the roaring machines in her croplands,
Brooding over the past he stands.
In him a hope for morrow beams,
Where life is so alike their dreams.

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