A Song of My Nation

O My awareness!
Get up quietly in blameless purity,
On this pious land of pious faith.
Standing here,
I bow to Krishna Consciousness,
Both hands folded, in gracious rhymes,
With the highest joy,
I surrender and sing hymns in his devotion.
These mystifying mountains housing Yogis and Rishis;
River rosaries, greening wilderness,
Nurturing the greatest and the oldest civilization.
Here the divine land chimes the greatest souls,
Plundered by streams of brutes,
Of so many uncivilized shores,
Raided here from on tumultuous currents,
Carry ugliness from stifling terrains.
Aryans, non-Aryans, Dravidians, Mongols;
Hans, Huns, Mughals, Christians,
Opened doors to all, rotten this pious land.
Few give but most looted,
Some merged but some divided,
But nobody to go back ancestors’ land.
On this land of Sanatan Dharma,
Come Hans, come Huns, come Muslims, come Christians,
Come Jihadists, come Naxals;
Cleanse your hands, and purify your mind and souls,
Hold the hand and embrace everyone,
Come, O fallen! and forget the past,
Come, to Mother’s meditation quick,
And dissolve in pious Krishna Consciousness
Take a dip in the Holy waters of Ganga,
Today on the on this pious land of pious faith,
And chant Hare Rama Hare Krishna.