A Poem by The Winter Poet

For my Blessed Motherland, India

She’s a place called heaven,
Her breath’s a song.
From the noon till the eleven,
In her name we sing along.

She’s a land of souvenirs,
The lakes to the rivers sing and cheer. 
She’s a book read sincere,
Her breath’s a rhyme that’s clear. 

She’s a mother that writes a book,
A book in pledge hands always shook.
The place where all Gods look,
Footprints our forefathers took.

Her fruit spelled with FREEDOM!
We are the seeds that sprout.
She’s the land of love and enriched wisdom,
Let’s celebrate without a rout!!!!

© 2016 The Winter Poet

Author's Note

The Winter Poet
For World Peace!

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Added on June 7, 2016
Last Updated on June 7, 2016


The Winter Poet
The Winter Poet

Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India

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