How high, we hoist, our pennon, of pride
In the heart, of our, patriotic prejudice
We ain’t, sovereign, unless, baptized
By the blood, of our sons, martyred, by malice!

These ‘inert emblems’, spur, fear’s furor
When men, celebrate, fiestas of hate
Raising, faith’s farm, with death, and gore
They become, the miseries, they create!

Why fall, to keep it, flying high
Blessed beauty, of, insanity
A truth squirming, in the shades, of a lie
Personifies, political, profanity!

Soulful, feel shadows, of, homegrown oaks
Not the propagandas, that swag, and brag
Sin’s, ‘stately’ satire, ethos, evokes
When Flags, Shroud Sons, In Body-Bags!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra