The Burning Sun THE BURNING SUN

I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun

Rising from the hills of human sinews,

Hearts are my friends

I live in the city of sufferings

Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history

I sculptured man silently –

Wings that carried birds

Did not bring them back;

I am drinking thick darkness

In the haunts of those forests

Which cry out in agony for the birds

That did not return;

Clutching at the garment woven of memories

I twine myself to the feet of my country.

Heads that were hanging to the trees

Smile as flowers today in the branches

Hearts that received the bullets

Ring in temples of our land like bells;

Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered

By how many to bring forth this day;

They are hanging like icicles

On the ridges of our roofs;

Look, it is an iron fist I have;

I shall excavate the flame of light

From the rocks of time –

I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries –

To the rivers that run in passion after the sea

I cry halt, command them

To paint the colourless arid lands in green,

Invite back the smile which fled away

In terror from this land,

To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower

I shall give a garden –

Come children, eat

Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight,

I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day;

If he wakes not on the horizon of this land

I shall tear my burning heart

And put it in its place

With the scarlet of my living flesh

Illuminate the earth

I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun

Rising from the hills of human sinews.

Poet:  THE BURNING SUN

By: Saatyaki S/o Seshendra Sharma, Hyderabad