Independence Day in Pherzawl

 


Upon this dawn, the distant city rings,  

With fire and flag and marches in their wake.  

But here, in Pherzawl, where gentle silence clings,

A meager march past stirs the thirstless lake.


Some children march, their uniforms askew,

Before the Deputy and the Superintendent, and their fleeting train,

Officers, tourists for a day or two,

Who vanish post-lunch, leaving dusk again.


For though we're labeled as the district's heart,

No badge or file will slumber here tonight.

Their polished shoes depart as guests depart;

By evening, all is shadow, none in sight.


Independence lives, not in grand parade,

But in the quiet soil, and hopes unswayed.

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