The magnificent gates of the dawn open with pride//

Bells cling and clash in the democratic wind// boasting with patriotic colours and a face of hope.

An elve bears the torch of salvation and preaches on.

We sight the light in its sermon // as it flickers and render an applause //with tongues stroking the sides of our cheek.

At dawn //we always dream we would stand on strong feet and get to plough our own lands. 

Just like every other animal //in our neighbourhood.

Carefree and Calm //unperturbed by  wandering travellers.

At mid-day //we pray our wings do not sweep against the powerful coursing river // that douses our sense of liberty //or plunge headlong // while we clamour //for an identity.

Let twilight’s pledges submerge our loud pleas//and draw us closer.

Let us not be tongue-tied //with the errors of our Lords //or the defiance of our elites.

All of our offerings //must paint this land  white and //then a lasting green.
May the memories of our heroes past // linger and not drown // in the sweeping flood.


Rita George

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