Songs From A Poisoned Land Poem by Anitha Vijayakumar

We were the children of the forest's breath,
Where the Sal trees danced and Mahua wept.
Our songs rose with the morning dew,
And stars would blink when we whispered through.

The land was sacred, the soil our skin,
We spoke to the rivers, they flowed within.
The groves were not just trees to us
They were gods, our kin, our ancestors' trust.

We lived with the elephants, walked with the deer,
Every rustling leaf, we held dear.
Butterflies played on our millet grain,
And honey dripped through summer rain.

But then, they came. With drills and greed,
They broke the womb of Earth to feed.
They found their "glory" in poison stone,
And left our fields to die alone.

Now the wind brings dust that burns our breath,
The river is bitter, and smells like death.
The pond is still, no fish remain,
Only silence floats on toxic rain.

The rice we eat carries a ghost,
Our children fall ill, what hurts the most.
Born with twisted limbs and hollow eyes,
We ask the sky, "Was this the price? "

Our women cry in empty wombs,
Our men now wander, chasing fumes.
The Hadia danga is fenced and lost,
And with it rituals, dreams, and cost.

The forest once whispered our ancestors' names,
Now machines roar and light cruel flames.
The butterflies fled, the foxes are gone,
The Sarna is a memory, but we carry it on.

We breathe in death, but still we sing,
With broken voice and shattered wing.
We bury our gods in radioactive ash,
And pray for rain that doesn't slash.

Oh land of elephants, oh Jaduguda mine,
You turned our blessings into a toxic shrine.
We were promised light, but live in shade,
In the cradle of uranium, our souls decayed.

Yet still, we stand. In dust, in pain,
With spirits cracked but not in vain.
We are the forest, the drum, the flame,
And we will rise again, though not the same.