By Richa Sharma
"You are such a fool," they say,
Dreaming so high, being so loud.
Just what do you wish to whisper to this crowd?
You are but a bee buzzing in their ear.
They neither see nor do they hear,
Whether the world burns or drowns in misery and fear.
The louder you speak, the higher they cheer,
Yet, I tell you, you will find none tomorrow here.
You crave to free them, to make them untamed,
To give voice to these muted mouths sealed by their own hand.
These are not wild beasts held by strong iron chains,
Nor are they little babies with no muscle or brains.
Constricting them to this unashamed,
Are the age-old beliefs, newly invented games—
Of manipulation, pacification, and in God’s call.
One glance of their Lord, and they cover in fear,
To their knees, they fall.
Change scares them more than their soul can bear.
Sons like you are not what every mother bears.
Live this life, leave these buffoons to their fate.
Noble may be the cause of your heart,
But only one willing to run will try hard.
What can you do to free a man held down by the weight of a lay grass?
Perhaps they are right,
Perhaps I do try in vain.
For the dead do not stir,
Be it fire or rain.
Iron chains may be broken,
Hit by hit, or perhaps when they rust.
But what of the invisible, invincible inside chain?
Of thoughts, of pride, or perhaps of ego of mega size?
Yet, yet I can’t find to leave in my heart—
Not a fool, but certainly not a sane part.
Tomorrow, this crowd will not be here.
They’ll be back to their business of fear.
There will come new faces,
Looking for a hurrah in their mundane dazes.
Then too, I will scream my throat raw.
Then too, I will write—
Write till there are blisters in this tiger’s paw.
For I do know change is hard,
It’s hard to amend what you know by heart.
Be it relation, constitution, or society for its part.
Yet , I will roar till I bleed,
For I sow the revolution’s seed.
Perhaps not in all, but in some.
Maybe not today,
But my friend , change will come
By Richa Sharma
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