I swear no fealty to religion or nation

I don’t give a damn about racial identity

Don’t care about the greatness of polity

My people are the clouds in the sky

My people are the trees, low and high

My people are the birds singing their tunes

My people are the mountains and the dunes

My people are the healers smuggling hope

My people are the ‘loons’ who cannot cope

My people are the mad artists absorbed in creation

My people are the surgeons of cosmos, beneficent destruction

My people are the rivers, seas, oceans and estuaries

My people are the flora and fauna, in tune with Gaia

My people are the ones in between, flitting in and out of existence

My people are the ones, who without complaint provided your sustenance

 

Let the mandate pass to my people, oh Creator

The world has lost its balance, unsustainable.

Come yakshas, come dryads, come muses, come and sing

Let’s turn to the Temporal and say, ” Oh Faro let my people go.”