Mom, mum, mummy
And the mum not an Egyptian mummy,
Again, changing the tone and tuning, mama, mamma,
Rounding the hands around her neck
And my heart gaga,
O, whistle you a song!
Oh, the mom’ the word!
But the mummy keeping mum,
Hearing all that.
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My country
Provincially separatedWith variations in language, diet, dressAnd manner,But aligning to in the end,My cultureAryan and absolutely Indian,But that dos deter meFrom becoming global.
How,
Who,Who bombard,Bombard and shellYour dwellingsForcing youTo take refuge and shelter?
Satchidanandan as a poet
Its history and movements,Reeling under the loomOf political ideologues and think-tanks,The pressures of the communist regimes,Where lies it bannedThe freedom of the press,The tongue under restraint,Freedom of speech and expression censured,Living under threat and pressure,The proletariat the masterBut how to do away with all thatColour in all,Red colour in allHistory, language, culture, song, choreography,Script, text…
Who is the girl with the blue eyes
The blondehair and blue eyes,The blue-eyed girl going?Where is she from,From Sweden, Finland, Denmark or Estonia,The girl with the blue eyes?
My daughter,
I shall not stay it hereTo see it up,But you will, my daughter,As the daughter of minewhich but they know it notWhose daughter are you not,Your pains and pines and woes,What it troubles youAnd your self,What it hurts and wounds you, my love!
My God, let me,
Living namelessly, dying namelessly;My God! let me be a singer!