Every dust has a story to tell,
One which would never fail.
The dust flies to land unknown,
It sails through crops delicately sown.
I arose from the dust I speak of,
I shall die mixed with it slowly.
With time and with fast catching age,
The dust now tells its tale of visage.
It describes a land full of life,
A land where love was family and friends.
A country where 'horn OK please' was written,
Of India,the golden dust was smitten.
The curd given before the exam in school,
The food laden smell which would break every rule.
The land where honesty paid a price,
The land where many starved for a bowl of rice.
A country where 'free' was the word of many years,
A country where quarrels in life lived in cheers.
The glory of the land was never dead though,
It rose like the highest tide ever seen.
Families who let their daughters fly high,
Workers who thrived on life without sigh.
Teachers who taught a class without any divide,
Rickshaw pullers,whose legs always made extra stride.
The land had people who fought and won,
Sportsmen who blossomed without any aide shown,
A curious case of 'chalta hai' and 'do the work today',
The stay of powerful decorated more than that of brave.
The dust is just my mind,it is just yours' too,
My crazy country perhaps makes it stand in a queue!
