Muskurayein Aap Aur Hum To Fiza Badal Jaye,
Baatein Karein Hum Sang Sang To Mausam Badal Jaye
Itne Dilkash Hai Hum Sab Ke Andaz,
Ki Chalenge Saath Saath To Sarkar Badal Jaye
Tag: Voting
Poem on Election
Aaya election karo taiyari,
saj dhaj ke nikli harek sawaari;
Congress ki chali zor se aandhi,
sab khush hain aayi sonia gandhi;
Laloo yadav baja raha hai gaal,
main hoon Bharat maa ka asli lal;
Abla nari ke hathon me saunpi lagaam,
rabri devi aa rahi hain karo salaam;
Mulayam singh hue bade kathor,
inka kisipe ab na chale zor;
Dekho dekho ye mayavati aa gayi,
apne hi guru kashi ko kha gayi;
Janta dal ka langda ghoda dauda,
bach gaye kewal sri devegauda,
Communist kar rahe hain left-right-centre,
naach rahe hain jaise bandar;
Jyoti basu baja rahe hain apna baaja,
ek din zaroor main banoonga raja;
Bal brahmchari bechare atal bihari,
inpe hamesha nari padi bhari;
Safed dadhi wale baba surjeet,
karwa rahe hain budhape me mitti palit;
kabr me panv hai aur dil me josh,
kis party me hai ye unko nahi hosh;
Sushma swaraj pahunchi bellary,
laga diya swadeshi banaam videshi nari;
bharat maa ki beti(indira) ki bahu,
chilla rahi hai main indian hoon;
Chalta rahega ye kursi ka khel,
phir chahe bharat lene jaaye tel;
Bhaiyo aur beheno dena usko vote,
jo de tumko dher saare note
Kyonki : ye paisa bolta hai
Vote Aapka Adhikaar Hai
Naha Lo Bhaiya Dho Lo Bhaiya, Jana Hai Ban Than
Ab Hai Election Yaar Ho Jaao tayyaar
Vote Dalna Bahut Jaroori, Sun Lo Har Koi Yeh Baat
Aapka Vote Bada Keemti Samjho Is Vote Ki Aukat
Jhaptney Mat Do Kisi Chalu Neta Ko Yeh Power Is Baar
Dikhla Do Apni Power Lekar Haath Mein Vote Rupi Talwar
Sarkar Hove Uski Jo Samjhey Kya Hoti Insaaniyat Kya Hota Insaan
Uski Na Hove Sarkar Jo Apna Ghar Roshan Kare
Jala Kar Janta Ka Ghar-Makaan.
We Want A Better Tomorrow
How strange to think of those streets
and vacant lots, the sandhills
where we played and dug our trenches;
the forts we built, the enemies
we conjured to aim our stick-guns at,
and then went home at evening,
to victory, to safety and sleep.
And now the vast acres of rubble,
the pitched and roofless houses,
upended stonework and sunken bridges.
The dog-packs roaming, digging,
for the one still-unclaimed victim;
the stray sniper aiming at dusk,
and in the roadside fields,
flowers that explode when picked.
The children wandering from one
burned suburb to another,
seeking that which no longer exists:
a neighborhood, a playing field,
a wading pool or a standing swing;
for a kite to fly, a ball to throw,
or just one pigeon to stone.
And through all this haunted vacancy,
from cellars and pits of sand,
come and go as on a fitful wind
such whispers, taunts and pleadings:
the scolding voices of dead parents,
the lessons of teachers no longer
standing, whose classrooms
are blown to ash and smoky air.
And far-off, unheard beyond the drone
of a single hovering aircraft –
in Paris, Zurich, Prague, or London,
the murmur of convening statesmen.