Bloodstained uniform, ragged and torn,
Bullet riddled and limp, life ebbs
Through bleeding gaping wounds..
Yet with one last heave, my city staggers,
And wraps the charred remnants of her once proud flag,
Around her gasping soul and charges.
Right into the raging fire of the damned,
To rescue the incarcerated spirit and shackled dreams,
Of a nation set ablaze, nay not with zeal or ardour,
But by the ravenous hunger of a corrupt and corrosive mind,
Of a jealous neighbor, brimming with sinister design.
My Mumbai, my city, my home,
I can scarce behold your weary listless form,
Once so graceful and with vibrant life possessed,
‘Een though with unpolished rustic charm
You could ever with consummate ease disarm
The most gracious and grandiose guest.
Shot in the back, blown apart by explosive hate,
My city bleeds, the bullet shattered bones crack,
Her eyes turn glassy and unseeing..
Oh ! my Mumbai, my city, my home
On her knees in the dust amidst rivers of blood ,
Her dying soul shudders, rattles and behold,,…
She lives, she rises, she stands valiant and tall,
Crusted with the drying blood of her young and old,
Now screams her defiance right from her very soul,
My Mumbai, my city, my home
Turns her blazing gaze upon the cringing coward,
For time is up, time is through, time has ticked
Right through, my foe, to you.