Because, my country is not about
Some lines & marks, perfectly drawn
On a paper.
I ask my kids to respect those bleeding feet
Where cracks have drawn the lines of the map.
Those bleeding, bare feet have written the saga of life,
Have crossed miles to win the battle of life.
Dust, that drifts with those travel sore feet
Are as holy as the dust of Virdavan.
I ask my children not to draw the map
But to feel the country & carry her essence in their heart
for ever.
I ask my children to pray for them
So that they can cross the miles safely & reach homes.
Homes, which are not even visible on that map.
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