Sidhu

From your heart, 

Flowed rivers of blood,

From the same heart,

Flowed rivers of love,

For Punjab.

The five rivers,

Found their bard in,

The stronghold of your voice,

What the nineteen bullets-

Could not silence.

That fluent flow of words,

Is your memory,

Sidhu Moose Wala.

Frozen reels reproduce,

The thunderbolts,

Of bullets ricocheting

From your lifeless body.

The red-soaked earth,

And the sparkling ripples,

Of Satluj heard a lion’s roar,

Over the maiming bullets,

Stronger, louder, deeper,

Than the thunder of bullets:

The war-cry of Jats.

The loving son of the land

Writes a chapter,

In the endless history,

Of his land,

With his last drop of blood.

The petrichor rising,

In the rain of your songs,

Embracing all 

The sons and daughters of land,

Even after the last drop,

Has run its course 

Into the soil of Jawaharke.