The fifteenth of August is august
For, we Indians feel gusto of freedom-
an emotional gust: terrible gusto.
Kings paid once; princes restored, hence
Peace (piece?) for all echoes in halls
Outside roll away chariots
Over the labouring class-corpses;
whom death is peace; dearth is wealth.
Gusto of August is of chicken-fry 'nd Rum
And the chicken-hearted dream of Ram 'nd Rum.
Many cry for a dish of fry
But the dish is with the wry.
Battered Tri-colours shattered
And the Colours in hands severally try
To flutter along the gutter roads.
Rum and Ram make many 'hurrahs'!
In the halls over which Silence shroud.
Silence, aged sixty-four, with pointed guns emerges
Slitting doors of emergency.
No cry, no slogans, bow all, lie all
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