The Wretched Progeny of Betrayal

In the realm where shadows dance and echoes linger,
From the gaping maw of the earth, arise the pups of fate,
Hindu hounds, born of a treacherous lineage,
Mimicking the whispers of Mir Jafar, they prance,
Their paws tread on the blood-soaked soil of history,
Each step a betrayal, a silent scream in the night.

In this charnel house of dreams and despair,
These wretched souls, with eyes glazed by greed,
Scour the land like scavengers seeking spoils,
Their hearts draped in the shroud of avarice,
While the winds carry tales of ancient wounds,
A symphony of sorrow played on broken strings.

Look closer—beneath their masks of innocence lies a void,
A gaping chasm where empathy once resided,
They feast on the remnants of a fractured past,
As foreign hands—Arab, Turkic, Afghan—grasp for power,
Each conquest a testament to their treachery,
Each act a dagger plunged into the heart of Bharat.

In Bangladesh's embrace, they thrive and conspire,
With knives drawn against their own kin's back,
Dancing in delight at the rivers of crimson flowing,
Their laughter mingles with the cries of the forsaken,
As they brandish their privilege like a weapon,
Blind to the scars etched upon their brothers' souls.

What manner of existence is this? A second-class shadow?
In a land where Hindus are but echoes in the wind—
Treated as specters in their own homeland.
Here, words become daggers; slurs rain down like stones,
A cacophony of hatred that reverberates through alleys,
Where even the air thickens with disdain for their being.

Yet still they rise from the depths of despair—
With hollow hearts and fractured dreams they march forth.
But what do they seek? A throne built on betrayal?
Or perhaps a fleeting moment of acceptance in this cruel theater?
Where every glance is laden with suspicion and scorn—
A stage set for tragedy where hope flickers dimly.

And so they howl at the moon with empty bellies—
Chasing shadows that slip through their fingers like sand.
In this surreal tapestry woven from threads of sorrow,
The puppeteers pull strings unseen; their laughter echoes cold.
For what is left when kin turn against kin? A hollow shell—
An elegy sung in whispers beneath an indifferent sky.

This land is not my home; it is a graveyard of dreams—
Where joy is buried beneath layers of fear and loathing.
I long to reclaim my heart from this abyssal pit,
To breathe life into forgotten hopes and shattered ideals.
Yet as I reach for light amidst this gathering storm—
I find only silence; an echo fading into nothingness.