O Saraswati, seated on a swan

Lotus in hand, and clad in white

Mother of speech and verse,

I salute you in your voice.

 

Born in the palm of the Mother

And raised on her nectar

Her mantra and her tutelage

In shayaris and ghazals.

 

I am born again and again

To write the stories of

Joy, despair, and humanity

In rhythmic justice and beauty.

 

Inspired to reforge and refine

My faith in the divine,

I must write of suffering

To come face to face with it.

 

To lift up the grievances, cries

And painfully suppressed verses.

Removing them from a long list

Such is the way of the activist.

 

To do away with class and caste

To relish in our equality at last

Is to see humanity in one another

And be absolved of suffering.

 

Down their spine and into their souls

Giving strength to bring down walls,

Verse sends shivers and rings 

Eternal the minds of its listeners.

 

I take up the lofty title of "poet".

A Hindu American ready to own it

Who will seek truth in rhyme

And lift voices from silence.