In a whiff of joy, whispered she,
Along with floating fragrant breeze,
Do you like to dwell in her parched den?
Ploughed barren devoid of any essence,
Not because it was her own desire,
No, no an evil eye was ever after her.

Sometimes they tried to reduce her to a mere stubble,
Sometimes buried as known, unknown,
You know why they switch to such disdainful tactics?
O’ let me tell you why?
Here lives the men of iron will,
Who never ever yield before their nefarious designs,

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Yes, suffered they too very much,
Either lost loved ones or get homes burnt,
And even their women became their tool to play with,
Yet behold their resentment,
Never ever they give up!

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