By Pratham Agarwal
There was once a maiden of such life and beauty,
That every kind of man felt it his rightful duty
To place his claim on her immensely astounding form,
Without care or concern for any natural norm.
Each man announced her to be his own divine property,
And laid out righteous laws in misaligned perpetuity.
Her arms, her legs, the bosom and the womb
Were used as the cornerstone for another man's tomb.
The angelic maiden remained sorrowfully silent,
As they ravaged her gentle beauty, madly gallant—
Unable to see the eternal soul in all life pristine,
Only to gain more body and blood were they blindly keen.
The offspring were sprung into ugly battle all the same,
To gain victory over another with more hatred and blame.
Tears were shed for those little lives lost again,
For some were even removed while yet without a name.
The maiden, their mother, cried out quietly bitter
For her infants—the men were still endlessly at each other—
To gain more of her body, her life and her bounty over,
Their sanctity continued to stoop lower and lower.
Suffered the mother lifelessly the wars of men,
Unable to whisper the true word to any of them:
That their distinct faith, colour, creed and tone
Could bring nothing but more suffering to this home.
That no man could claim the maiden to be his own,
For every piece of land was just a borrowed loan.
That these acts of men were vaporising life’s mirth—
Which is the very heart and soul of this Mother Earth.