I mean the masters of the language
But we have forgotten it
That the master of the masters
Lies he there
And the reality is this we the learners
Of an acquired language, an alien one,
A link language,
A dictioanry consulting one
But we like the green, but pink-ring-necked parrots
Of the fortune-tellers,
Telling sita-Ram, Sita-Ram,
Send the buti, the herbal material,
Means soaked grams and others
And the illiterate passers-by seeing
In great astonishment
The parrots of the pundit
Taking the Hari-name,
The name of the Lord.
Even the cooks of the Englishmen can speak in English,
The peons of the convent schools,
So, what to pride over?
Generally, the half-read persons keep finding faults with,
With your language and grammar
As they themselves cannot write it.