My country is poor.
Its people have no food
Spitting on the road
(and piddling on the wall)
Isn't even considered rude.
My country is poor
Villagers live in half-baked huts
They work day and night o the farms
No roads are there, only ruts.
People starve in Jhabua
Scrounging for a meal
In Orissa they'd kill for food
That's the sad deal
My land is poor
Rains have been unfair
A week of delayed fall
Arouses uncertainty, gives scare
The people are poor, aye
But only in their pockets
In their heart resides great mirth
They are deep, strong rooted
No money worries them not
The rich sleep less
Yet at the end of the road
They all sleep the same
The former at peace
In love with nature
Not a cruel slasher of trees
For smoke billowing factories
Ancient as the trees
His gnarled beard and deep brown eyes
His fields, for his wise delight
And he speaks little
Profound silence echoes.
Its people have no food
Spitting on the road
(and piddling on the wall)
Isn't even considered rude.
My country is poor
Villagers live in half-baked huts
They work day and night o the farms
No roads are there, only ruts.
People starve in Jhabua
Scrounging for a meal
In Orissa they'd kill for food
That's the sad deal
My land is poor
Rains have been unfair
A week of delayed fall
Arouses uncertainty, gives scare
The people are poor, aye
But only in their pockets
In their heart resides great mirth
They are deep, strong rooted
No money worries them not
The rich sleep less
Yet at the end of the road
They all sleep the same
The former at peace
In love with nature
Not a cruel slasher of trees
For smoke billowing factories
Ancient as the trees
His gnarled beard and deep brown eyes
His fields, for his wise delight
And he speaks little
Profound silence echoes.
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