Wind has no smell
The aroma it spreads is from the Master’s garden.
Nor has it any sound
Music you hear in the wind is from the singing birds.
Alas!
Master’s garden has dried up
And the birds sing no more!
The crackling noise of the broken trumpet
That you hear that hurts your eardrums
Is from the oppressor’s loud mouth
And the smell of bad breath the wind is spreading
Isnot from the Master’s garden but from the tyrant’s foul mouth!!
Cry for change is in the air
Of my downcast citizens
Warriors are coming
And you are the warriors!
The Tyrant will be defeated
And Master’s garden would bloom
Its aroma would spread again;
Birds will sing and music would fill the wind again!
Change is on its way.
The author is a Professor of Development Practice, School of Social Science, University of Queensland, Australia
