The mountains rise in a silent hymn,
Where the ancient light begins to dim.
I trace the map of your stony face,
Searching for a holy, hidden place.
The rhododendron bleeds a crimson stain,
A cooling balm for all my earthly pain.
The Alaknanda carves a path of gold,
Through stories that the Deodar have told.
The mist arrives to wear a ghostly hat,
Resting where the tired pilgrims once sat.
But beneath the pine, appears a hollow sound,
Where concrete giants tear the sacred ground.
The river weeps behind a wall of stone,
While the simple hills are left to ache alone.
A kurta, a topi, a shawl, a politician's smile,
Hiding miles of greed and bitter guile.
They trade the forest for a heavy purse,
Turning devbhoomi from blessing to a curse.
The land is sold in pieces, bit by bit,
While the lords of power in their mansions sit.
Yet, beloved Uttarakhand, your soul is never dead,
Despite the lies the hungry wolves have fed.
You are the eagle’s cry, the leopard’s eye,
The bridge between the river and the sky.
I hold your soil, the scent of rain and pine,
And claim your broken majesty as mine.
