To The Dispenser Of Our Destinies

By A.J.R. Mennon

Power after power after power after power

Invading to rule, to rob our ancient glory—

How much was divided and how much

Was our soil colored by our own blood?

But did they shape our inmost character?

Our spirit, our soul, did they ever touch?

Seventy-five years gone and all is such

In whispers our rise is ever doubted

Still behind our backs is thrown mud

Discontent sowed in attempts at unity;

We toil on and on still, our stature

Still being built from ashes, but

Dispenser of Indian Destinies, to you, we pray

When after a hundred years of being free

Let this be a republic whose prosperities

Come not of conquest, but creativity,

Of ingenious and fearless activity

By people whose imperial shackles lay

As dust in the past: a people whose way

Is chosen by you and them, united.

And may all lords of all faiths rain

Grace on all this land’s corners;

Wisen our people’s minds and hearts

So, our young souls can walk with a gaze

Unwaveringly bright, a spine straight

Busy building futures in whose victories

All humanity’s enriched, and takes part

Knowing this tri-color tale was written in the stars;

From darkness to victory, victory and more victory

Let all our minds, hearts and souls advance—

Golden sparrows reborn as fire eagles soaring.

By A.J.R. Mennon