India is her land – too vast to know,

            Outlasting the ploughs that scratch her face,

            Or the trains criss-crossing her to and fro.

India is her past – too old to trace,

            Older than even the gods she conceived,

            Or the realms her deepest words embrace.

India is her injustice – that long has grieved

            Parents of children born to be poor,

            Made the real too unreal to be believed.

India is her people – more and more,

            Their hopes like temple-sculpture twined,

            Whose energies surge as their talents soar.

India is her warmth – of the summers that grind

            Limbs to a torpor, but release at dark

            Wit, companionship, deftness of mind.

India is her death – the cosmic spark

            That creates, yet finally purifies:

            That destroys a whole universe, leaving no mark.

India is her beauty – her deer-like eyes,

            Her wet black hair – but her squalor too:

            Her perfume and stink, her truth and her lies.

India is her tolerance – but also her saffron hue,

            Too bright, too bright for some who dwell

            In her orbit: for them she must dress anew.

India is her promise – still to be born from her spell,

            A song that those who love her hear

            In their heart of hearts, yet which cannot dispel

Her pain and rage and confusion.  Will it ring out near

            In the new age?  Will its meaning grow?

The planet will need the song to be strong and clear.