'Ode To The Voice' By Ink Soul Poem by Ink Soul

Ode to the Voice by Ink soul

In dawn's soft hush, a cry takes wing,
A child of earth, where rivers sing.
Her eyes, like monsoon clouds at play,
Her skin aglow in dawn's first ray.
Nature cradles her sacred art,
A rhythm pulsing through her heart.
She sways with leaves, speaks to stone,
Whispers truths the winds alone have known.

Her face blooms radiant, lotus-bright,
Soft as silk spun from starlight.
Lips chant Vedas' timeless lore,
Dreams drift beyond the Ganga's shore.
Through seasons gentle, wise, and slow,
In sage-lit groves, her spirit grows.
Love arrives with fervent grace,
A touch, a hand, a tender face.

From Harappa's clay to Ashoka's peace,
Her joys and dreams find sweet release.
The Upanishads weave truths profound,
In her gaze, the cosmos spins around.
By Brahmaputra's roar, where Ganga flows,
Her laughter joins the peacock's glow.
Through Mughal domes and Tamil verse,
Her soul reflects the universe.

But thunder breaks the sky's sweet song,
And fires fall where peace belongs.
A shadowed line splits heart and land—
The Radcliffe scar, by tyrant's hand.
In '47, brothers turned to foes,
From Punjab's fields to Bengal's woes.
Borders carved through souls like blades,
Love dissolved in hate's cruel raids.

Her face, once nature's sacred hymn,
Cracks like clay on Serampore's rim.
From Plassey's greed to Jallianwala's cries,
War's iron hand dims her starlit eyes.
Kargil's snow, Pulwama's blast,
The present wears the wounds of past.
Ayodhya weeps, Kashmir's rivers bleed,
Yet she holds both in tears unceded.

Rome fell, Ashoka mourned his wars,
Berlin split, Hiroshima bore scars.
Each lash of time upon her skin
Bears tales of conquest, truth, and sin.
Colonial chains once bound her name,
Yet her soul burns free, unscarred by shame.
Why do brothers forge bombs to kill,
Silencing kin with death's cold will?

Why does rage in sacred halls ignite,
Echoing grief through endless night?
She stands, a reef in pain's deep sea,
Where peace drowns beneath belief's decree.
No line on maps, no flag's decree,
Can break the love she longs to free.
Her heart, though torn, still dreams of grace,
A world where borders leave no trace.

What if no grief had marred her gaze?
No wars to haunt, no bitter days?
Would roses bloom where borders scar,
And gods walk hand in hand, unmarred?
Would mothers sleep, no fear to bind,
For sons unclaimed by frontier's line?
Would love, unfractured by creed or caste,
Weave memories destined to last?

Imagine a world where swords are spades,
Where pens write peace in bloodless glades.
From Kanyakumari's shores to Kashmir's snow,
Her laughter would in freedom flow.
No cries of rape, no clash of creeds,
But fields of rice and mustard seeds.
In Vrindavan's joy, where Krishna plays,
Her children dance through endless days.

O child of Bharat, earth's own kin,
Recall the soul's worth deep within.
From Gandhi's salt to Tagore's song,
Her spirit calls where we belong.
The Sufi's whirl, the temple's bell,
Kabir's verse, where truths still dwell.
No colonial shadow, no post-war pain,
Can dim her light through monsoon rain.

Let's build an India, a world anew,
Where love is law, and peace is true.
From Delhi's dust to Kerala's green,
Let unity heal where pain has been.
Cast down the sword, embrace the heart,
Let freedom's anthem be love's new start.
For every soul, of every hue,
This song of peace burns bright and true.

Her face, though scarred, still shines divine,
A beacon born of rivers' rhyme.
From Mohenjo-Daro's ancient clay,
To freedom's fight in the modern day,
Her beauty weeps, yet still it sings,
Of love that soars on boundless wings.
O India, rise, with your heart's sweet plea,
For peace, for love, for eternity.

Let this be our anthem, deep and wide,
A river of truth where hearts abide.
Beneath the banyan's timeless shade,
Her soul endures, unscarred, unswayed.
Sing of her grace, through every land,
And hold her close, with heart and hand.
For when the world learns how to see,
Peace shall bloom, no mere poetry.