By Aashiq S – India
(This poem is a tribute to the valiant warriors of the various Indian mother tongues against the radical imposition of Hindi language on them, threatening cultures and ethnicities.
In the shade of the big papal tree,
In the convinced conceits,
In the minds of the lot,
It lives as the invisible privilege of the gloat.
In the shade the shrubs,
and grass are forgotten to what they are, plants.
The big tree wakes up, looks around the canopy,
and see extended self – green.
Then it looks itself – green.
It concludes,
Everything till my horizon is nothing, but me.
What it missed was the shades of the green,
Their own shadows,
Their own little horizons.
Mostly wilting away in the pride of shadows…
Somewhere far away from the river,
whilst some were doomed by the big beaver.
Is it beautiful? Yes
Is it poetic? Absolutely
Is it strong? Sure
Is it the only? Of course not
Is it being assumed as the only one?
The thread of the chain? Sadly yes,
Seeing only half the chain.
Are the others any lesser? Not even a qn.
The best dish in the world is tasty,
But when shoved down the throat,
forcing to set aside our mother’s cooking,
its nothing but nasty.