The Roar of the Indigenous

O Mother Assam! Your whispers still haunt my soul,
Like the Brahmaputra’s tide—eternal, untold.

I remember the verses from my childhood lore,
Echoes of glory from battlefields of yore—

"Garhgaon, Garhgaon! At thy name, I bow,
Did our feet falter? Who betrays us now?"

Time’s cruel river has stolen our pride,
Yet in our veins, Lachit’s storm still rides.

O sons of Assam! Awake, arise once more,
The thunder of destiny knocks at our door!

No more the grovel! No foreign vows!
No more deceit—we reclaim our ploughs!

Our soil once drank the martyrs’ crimson due,
855 flames—still blazing in me and you.

Yet now, their sacrifice rots in schemers’ hands,
While traitors auction our sacred sands.

Where is that Assam—proud, fierce, unbound?
Why do you weep, Mother, kneeling on ground?

No balm for wounds cut treacherously deep,
No rest for souls who oath and honor keep.

The bulldozer growls, the storm is here,
The hour has come—will you fight or fear?

O Bagh Hazarika! Rise from history’s shade,
Unsheathe your fury—let steel decide fate!

No "Miya Museum" shall stain our land,
No foreign law 'CAA' shall break our stand!

The Assam Accord—ink dried in vain,
Promises buried in greed’s foul stain.

Beware, O usurpers! The indigenous roar,
Like Lachit’s charge on Saraighat’s shore!

The Brahmaputra howls with our battle cry,
"Assam is ours—we live free or die!"

✍️ © Mottakeenur Rehman