Tagore and the Sikhs

In the prominent royal Mogul court of Delhi

King's sleep will break-up hundred times daily

There was such a dreadful fright in his heart

In his consciousness painful sighs were brought

What fire scorched his heart no one knows

All of a sudden he was jumping in fiery blows

It appeared like red hot sky from the Delhi court

King's heart shaking, seeking Godly support

Rivers of blood were flowing on the five rivers' land

Sikhs were facing persecutions for some ideal ground

Smeared in blood, they were saying thanks in gratitude

Patiently, regardless of comforts, they were in solitude

They crossed their way with the Moguls might

With faithful heart they remembered God in sight

Maiden decorated with mark of blood, their foreheads

What sort of people are Sikhs, with such eagerness

They move like moth, looking at burning all around

Without delay they line up ready to fight duty bound

They play jokes with death, and like lions they roar

Wherever they stare and rebuke, enemy is no more

Brave warriors jumped in fray with hand to hand attack

They quickly hawk assaulting caught the deadly foe

Like flying hawk assaulting a deadly poisonous snake

Squeezing them in his claws from tip to toe

Innumerable was the enemy army, Sikhs were very few

They were surrounded in chains and were put in queue

Clothes soaked in blood, bodies full of wounds and bruises

Intestines fall in tummy but they had faith and confidence

The enemy was battered by the dashing Banda Singh sage

Moguls fought back and tied him like brave lion in cage

Surrounded him from all the sides and imprisoned the hero chum

Then they moved towards Delhi, on the beat of kettle-drum

The Mogul army departed towards the Capital of Delhi city

They moved like hurricane, without stopping or any pity

Seven hundred Sikhs were imprisoned and curled-up in chains

It was a disgusting sight, an extraordinary incident, full of pains

On every pointed spear, the head of Sikh was hanging

Streams of blood dripping, the sight will give a panging

Sikh prisoners shackled in chains, shouted this voice of cry

O! our true saviour preserve thy honour, don't let panth shy

Spectators gathered in the heart of Delhi's Chandni Chowk

This caravan of Sikhs was quite out of strength and in shock

Outside they were dull and defeated, inside enjoying thrill

Greeting loudly the victory of Guru and obedient to His will

The onlookers revealed an extraordinary and peculiar tale

The prisoners started argument as no body wanted to fail

Everybody wanted to be first in their turn to meet the fate

All wanted to meet the Beloved, Gobind through life's gate

The wheel of death started, the murderers were on assault

An applause was echoed, whenever the sword was at fault

The Sikhs were being butchered, going forward for sacrifice

It was game of seven days for seven hundred heroes nice

Chief Banda Singh was in the clutches of destiny or fate

Next they brought forward to kill his little son ever so great

The Kazi passed on to banda Singh the killer sword grand

He ordered to cut his son's head as it was royal command

Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/sikh-gurus/14669-tagore-and-the-sikhs.html
Sons are symbols of worldliness for formality in social affairs

If someone rebukes them one feels like to pull his hairs

What sort of test in life, to kill one's own son, was shaping

The thing one can't even imagine, the same was happening

Banda first picked his son and loved and caressed him

Then he tried to explain the role and character of Sikhism

Prince Fateh and Jujhar Singh were also children like you

Now in the test time and what they achieved you can also do

Greeting the victory loudly, the little son was revitalized

If life goes, the custom of Sikhism is, let it be sacrificed

For holder of righteousness definite victory will be at last

His love won't be wasted, he meets the Beleoved very fast

Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=14669
The Kazi became angry as he could not bear the splendour

The executioner attacked the child and he started to flutter

Even then this strange trick of destiny could not succeed

Plump intestines jumping softly, the earth was red indeed

It is written in the history that Banda remaned unmoved

In his mouth soft plump heart of slayed child was forced

In this hard probation Banda remained unshaken, steady

The history will cry when going through its own study

It was such a dreadful scene that onlookers could not spy

Snatching with pincers first they took out his both eyes

Iron bars were made red hot to burn his body limbs ready

The Sikh greeted the victory loudly and soul left the body

The Sky echoed with kettle-drum beat, banner flying like kite

Once a hero takes a battlefield, he is eager to show his might

A true warrior is one, who fights for sake of humble and meek

He might cut into the pieces, but to leave battlefield will never seek