The country, my country
That I so dislike
Is still my own country.
She is spiraling down to doom
Her leaders hungry for money and not food,
Her role models abusive and not loving,
Blinded by power and wealth;
Her laity angry and suffering,
Her spine, her back bone breaking
Under the weight of immorality and injustice
Other nations try to aid
But her leaders, spears and swords they wield
Drive them away.
My country by her leaders and role models is raped,
She weeps with her laity.
Should Tagore or Gandhi be alive
They would weep too.
The country they died to save
Is heading to ruin and insanity.
Art is one of the strongest weapons in the arsenal of social change
Yet what could the sentiments of a lowly poet like me do?
Like Yeats wept for Ireland,
Feeling the end of the age at hand,
At the door, at the heel,
In the same manner
So do I weep for my country.