My country is burning.
Streets are in chaos.
Minorities are being hunted.
Bulldozers run through homes and heads.

Unemployment has reached its peak—
A scale never seen in Indian history.
Degrees rest only on paper;
Reality pushes us to become delivery boys.

Schools are being shut down.
Students must cross villages.
The result:
Uneducation.
We are watching our future bleed out on the streets.

The poor are beaten to death.
Caste bares its teeth—feeds like a beast on silence.
The accused are mocked.
Power appoints him to the legal office.

Corruption eats our institutions.
Hypocrisy rules over bureaucracy.
Bridges collapse.
Roads become bathtubs.
Elected ones become kings overnight.

Pegasus stalks our voices.
Leftover vocals become voiceless.
Rules are for “good governance”—
But here,
the Constitution is under threat.

Angels become gods of death.
Hospitals echo with the screams of the living,
where healing has the scent of blood.
We pay
for being killed.
Grief and pain—never-ending—
haunt us.

We, the people,
must raise our hands.
The Constitution is our lifeline.

We cannot allow them
to destroy our future.
We raise our pens.
We write in the language of resistance.
We do not disappear.
We survive

.    .    .