They say when I first descended on earth
Roaring like a million drums beating in unison
The divine destroyer had to spread his matted locks to break my fall
Lest my force destroy his dear devotees on Earth.
Did he in his divine knowing not see
That one day those very devotees would destroy me?
The dams they built have fractured my backbone beyond repair
My limbs lie corroded by the effluents drained into me,
My sound is now muted by the drillers in an endless search for water,
And my flow that once danced and meandered over miles across the lands
Now trickles, slow and tired,
Like the single stream of sweat
From the brow of the farmer looking heavenwards praying for rain.
Someone please tell him there's no point now.
In these times, even a tapasvi like Bhageeratha would fail.
What could he, a worn out man of the soil do,
Except, maybe gather the fallen trees
they had planted in hopes of reviving me
And make a funeral pyre
On which will lie the dying earth herself.
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