You name everything
In the way you want
If it looks or tastes good
Whether it is fish or chilly.
When there were bamboo polls
In every gate,
And when the drains were wide
Your fish housed inside hollow bamboos
No one bothered it.
Never had it noticed the torn fishing net.
Never had it protested for being caught
And kept inside the poor lady’s ngabongkhao
Now it has come out of the muddy drain
And learn to talk loud and dig the earth.
For Maharaj Gambhir,
A flyover has been paved
Like a red carpet
Towards Kangla Gate,
By the great politicians of our time,
So that the Maharaj doesn’t find
The poor mothers
And their unsold vegetables and fishes.
The politicians house your fish
Inside their pockets and socks.
And now they look down from the flyover
To find the crest and trough
Of our economy
To pour fuel and burn it
To start all over again a new wave
To amplify further
Their lives and wives
With golds and our death.
Now your fish has been fed so much
That it grows its teeth so sharply
Its tail can wipe away the statue of Maharaj
And it did sometime back in Moirang
Now the poets have not heard
The chirping of the skylark
Since your fish turned into a Shark
And the politicians recite our history
Of the poor mothers
Who fought days and nights
Saving the lives of so many sons
While the shark get lost
In the middle of the redness
That the blood colored