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On liberty
 The very word wafts freedom's bracing air
Flashing memories of souls that had dared
Death and cannon to keep alive the fire
Celestial gems of beings who had geared
Their very breath to blow out their shackled
Stain in a deathless joy of self-giving
To their mother who had always suckled
To nourish them in her sweet heart hiving.
Of what avail is it to kill the thrall
If our own cannon fails to consecrate
Our vow of vigil and soon lets us fall
Into a fettered fate to rue our state?
Thus bereaved, it is futile to fume and rage.
Winkless vigil never writes the bonded page.
-By G. Viswanathan
From: To our first granddaughter Pratibha and other poems
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