Red streaks that bind, blood and bond
Tradition whispered in the memory of time.
Bharat in its breeze hot with rage,
shines in the Indians’ shadows of despair.
Breathes from this young-eyed tourist,
Harop drones, fate’s humming wings.
As the grief of widows stood, Sindoor,
a diaspora in drone vs drone revelry
A fleeting flame, a dream.
Sindoor bears the freedom’s price,
an unsaid silence-geared state;
all turmoil sweeps Indian pride, pain, and deterrence,
entwined in the chain of independence.
Watch the soft light of the red violets,
which are signs of hope in the stillness of the night.
Lightning flashes, midnight’s cries,
and raffle missiles streaking across the sky.
We cannot ignore the call for justice when combined
with the ferocious core of patriotism.
Lightning the nuclear bluff midnight fury of sindoor,
Mixed with an essence of the cry for justice
Red streaks that bind, blood and bond
Stories of travels in red emmets
With our gaze fixed on the promise of tomorrow, we reign!
