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The Ordained and Sacred mystery
Of The Golden Bird
Wore the mask of misery
With some vanishing echoing word.

The story of this golden bird’s struggle
To attain freedom from a rusted iron cage
Is sufficient for a historical trouble
And to fill thee up with rage.

For that, Let’s go behind in time
To fly with that bird
To series of crime
Till dawn and then sunshine.

India was the most opulent territory
And the king of trading
Exported variety of food and spices for hungry
And best fiber for clothing.

In exchange, only gold coins
And collected them in innumerable abundant
All the other proposals declined
And the Golden Bird Independent.

Whether it is Agriculture, pottery, sculpture, music, drama
Or Iron production, still less?
The best education in Nalanda
What’s left thou guess.

And how can we forget the king?
Who first called India the Golden Bird
Raja Vikramaditya freed the wing
And for his assembly the best he served.

The new golden bird was unstoppable and courageous
And how gracefully she sings
But unaware of world cruelty and mercilessness
And they cut her delicate wings.

For us, the guest was the god
And we were humble, not bad
But Britishers betrayed us and were fraud
Alas, we were stabbed.

With chains in the neck, in hands, in foot
Our head held low
They crushed our skull with boot
They became our lives’ foe.

My mother carrying a British on her back
And father polishing their shoe
My brother was beheaded with a whack
The newborns had to suffer too.

It was like falling in an endless tunnel
Trampling day and night
Just falling in a hustle
With no hope of light.

But then magic happened in this case
The bird started regrowing her wings
To embrace the chase in this race with grace
To cool the scorching sun of the summer with spring.

Slogans, Screams, Bombs, and Bullets
That’s all thou could hear
Patriotism captured us to the fullest
Tore the mask of misery and fear.

We drove them out but lost a lot
The crown of the golden bird was worn
but we didn’t stop and fought
Even Kohinoor, Our adorn was gone.

The bird was free from the cage
But she was wounded and couldn’t fly
She was torn and in need of aid
In thy eye, she could just cry.

But her torn feathers were stitched again
With the creation of the constitution
As if in the heavy rain
The umbrella was the solution.

The knowledge was continuous and cumulative
And non-egocentric was the tradition
A cardinal principle of knowledge constitution
The intellect acquires critical acumen by familiarity with different traditions.

The golden bird was no longer beautiful
But now mightier and mature
No longer wretched but more dutiful
That we fly high in the sky, We’ll make sure.

But we could never forget that nightmare
when we felt the pain, tasted the blood
And even when we grow white hairs
We’ll learn to stand up after we fell in the mud.

There is no such bird in the world
I love thee, Oh my golden bird…

Thank You…!

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