Republics are raised, on the graves
Of martyrs, to vain legacy
How blood, and lust, for power, paves
The painful paths, to democracy!

Twenty Fifth June, of that year
An Indira sold, an India’s soul
To her totalitarian fear
And Satan caroused, when heads did roll!

What a fiesta, of Congress crooks
When establishments were, burnt on pyre
‘Renegades’, smoked out, from ‘evil’ nooks
Our ethos fed, to a dynasty’s ire!

It’s servitude of, yet another kind
Can Democracy trump, its populace?
‘False Gods’ idolized, if deaf and blind
Tyranny has an ‘Angel Face’!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra