The country is unchained freedom is chained in a free reign of terrific terror in the dark den of the few - the vulturine owls, elected to rule the roost of corruptions, of vested interests.
What reigns here is a big horrid horror spread for the dumb who bear their brunt every day in tearful deluge, every night assaulted by frights for their rights are written off wrested by those, mad with power dipped in blackish red, the blood of the country.
The destitute's skeletons are hung, stinking out shame for all those badly lost in sumptuous spree; the poor are roughly trodden, crushed, roasted broad daylight on the sepulchral fire of stark poverty with their starved hope; the big dragon of their helplessness devours in flames their sense of freedom.
Oh! Ah! Mother India feels extremely sad still chained, whipped up, and enslaved!
