The sons of the land, but pawns tame,

To the hands of the lord are these torn brutes

For they are all but themselves

Like slaves to the black hand of a masters pall

Through forests and foliage they trudge along

For reasons unknown, just a parchment tall

That bore lores of their terror, the sorrows and sufferings

In those dark nights on cold feet

An order they heeded from a force unseeded


Murderers these vile creatures of themselves, their identity

Victims are they, of ne’erending calamity

Where intellect and emotions but a minstrels song, untrue

For a king should and must be cradled

By minions in armor, in shadows of grey

Here, wreckage is treasure and insult an award

By the hand himself, a manifestation of God

-Dhairya Gandhi


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