A Poem from the Book:
“Through the Window of Taj Mahal” ( a book of 30 poems)
Freedom does not make its nest
In isolated cries;
Tell the dissidents to grow a tree
Rising high above the sun,
With branches spreading
All over the earth.
When the night brings fear and loneliness
Into my house,
In your house the sun has just risen;
And your shadow
Is no longer your enemy,
But a kind fellow traveller.
Perhaps freedom,
In its wanderings,
Would perch for a short while
On the rootless branch of your cry,
But do not forget that the night
Has still its sojourn in my house,
And the sun also
Will not stay in your house forever.
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