ECHOES FROM THE INDIAN SOIL
Life cycle of Indian has started from this soil,
She cradled our first breath in her gentle embrace,
We call her Dharti Mata with folded hands,
The sacred mother, the heart of our place.
Every grain we get through it is cherished,
Blessings gathered in the warmth of the sun,
It smells of rain, of love, of home,
And carries stories old, yet never done.
She wears the colours of our dreams,
Holi’s pink and harvest’s gold,
In every speck, a prayer sleeps,
In every wind, her songs are told.
Some lovers have shed their blood to protect her,
And still her children guard her name,
For she’s the cradle, crown, and fire,
The soul no storm can ever tame.
But deep within her silent heart,
Lie truths the eye can never see,
It’s not just a soil — it’s a soul of every Indian,
The keeper of what we were, and what we’ll be.
Ultimately, it absorbs its children into herself,
With arms wide open, full of grace,
A temple where all journeys end,
The one eternal resting place.
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