A Boycott For A Dawn

A foreign mind,

Incapable of sympathy,

Aiming the words,

‘Divide et empera’.

And achieved with,

Efficient administration,

Cut the heart,

Of the cultural,

And national love.

But the pericardium,

Of Bengali faith,

Didn’t actually broke,

During the race,

But to remain steady,

As the track is long,

And the checkpoint,

Is far, faraway.

The foes of him,

Boycotted something,

Which really decreased

The fuel of his machine,

Which really starts

A sacrificial chain,

Of Indian events.

 

A variation of

The motioning vibrations,

May not or may,

Sound you good,

But it was a music,

Of the patriotic river,

Whenever it clashed,

With the imperialistic rocks.

 

The bricked destinations

Experienced the literal

And Damped vibrations,

Which went reversible,

Which I didn’t expect.

 

A veteran mind,

A poetic eye,

And a patriotic script,

Changed my mood,

I totally forgot,

The unusual days,

As the chain,

Of vows by the hearty,

Sacrificial descendants,

Of the expecting mother,

Increased at its very limits.

 

The unending deeds,

Increased the speed,

Of the sacrificial ones,

And they won the battle,

Of the unusual ways.

 

The Determination of a Father

I feel proud,

And happy,

When I think of him,

Whenever I remember.

 

He was the stone,

Of the pure peace,

He was the light,

Of the adoption,

Of the great Swadeshi,

Which was invincible,

To the diving attempts,

And the communal obstacles.

 

His name I know,

This universe knows,

But the known one

Never thought of this,

That he will affect

The moments of mine,

Which are futuristic.

 

The blood of

The garden sufferers,

Whose minds were truly,

Full of bravery,

Succumbed in the,

Tornado of aggression.

But he and his mind,

Disguised as his stick,

Never shed their

Concentration against

The Hoping dawn,

And begun

A golden walk,

And if I could find,

The proof of it,

Then it will be my,

Greatest experience.

The foreign hands,

Were feeling as if,

They are losing

Some kind of weight,

So a try to clutch,

The peaceful fire,

A talk they did,

With him.

He put forward,

His mindful hands,

But after a failure,

He shunned the talk,

And put his foot,

On the older land,

Which later made,

The mother smile,

With a happy cry,

But what then happened,

I can’t say anymore,

As it was a plot against this smile.

 

A Tearful Surgery

Indeed I think,

It was a surgery,

Whose need was not,

At all indeed.

 

The mother cried,

When the hindrance,

Of accession shattered my dreams,

But what was the need,

Of this unusual demand,

For the ambitious means,

And the communal thoughts,

What a useless,

And unusual view,

I have got.

 

But still there is a hope,

Revolving around,

My migrating mind,

That a rise will occur,

As a hopeful dawn,

Which could truly change,

The fate of the fatal mother.