It rains for hours
in Delhi!
The drops, young scholars,
enlighten all with free will;
they join forces,
might above ’em old men
hurling soggy, blood-stained
papers balls,
The officers call it Section 144.
Sound familiar?
It rains, relentless,
down on anarchy,
carrying vigour from the sea,
free will from the plains
and vision from the hills;
the unified front,
a weather to break barriers
and inhuman statutes.
The storm washes dirt and grime
from the winter leaves,
cleanses the leathered
conscience of existence.
It washes off masks,
reveals the hidden mob
and their savage tone,
but lets the blood stains remain;
to glow in the glare
of those billion flames
lit for a cause beyond
amendments, acts and atrocity.
It rains for hours
in Delhi!
