I am mother India.

I am Mother India.

Untraceable years ago I was a young and beautiful woman;
My palm trees danced and my waterfalls played.
My mountains leapt and my rivers laughed;
I ran under the bright sun and splashed in the sweet rain.
My skin grew brown for I wore only the turquoise seas;
There was not a blemish or flaw on my youthful flesh.

I came of age and Father would hide my beauty no longer;
I was wed to a High King that I might bare his children.
My first offspring were innocent and simple;
They ate my fruit and nursed on my plenty.
I bounced precious babes on my knee;
I swung dear cherubs in happy circles.

Cruel children from other mothers came with pain;
They taught my offspring to fight and hate.
My children grew with theirs and they learned greed;
Soon neither would speak well to me or with kindness.
They abused my forests and stole my diamonds;
They forced my milk, but my love did not waiver.

Now I have countless children, mean and dark;
They gouge and claw and ask for more.
I give and give and have nothing else;
My soil is dry, my rivers are red.
“More,” they cry, and so more I find;
But brittle, ugly and old am I.

I cannot bare another child;
I will die when the next one arrives.
What can I do, what can I give;
I love them so, and still they are ravenous.
I will pull them to my breast, and it will be dry;
For this they will hate me, the more will I love them.

I am Mother India.