We, the mad,
we, the mad ones, who breathe the fresh air,
opening windows, savoring the season's flair.
We, the mad ones, who breathe the fresh air,
opening windows, savoring the season's flair.
We, the mad ones.
It seems they've fallen in love with us,
and when we meet,
at the moment of encounter, they lower their gaze.
Opening windows, savoring the season's flair.
We, the mad ones, understand.
There's no one like us to drink,
wherever we go,
wherever we wander, we make a tavern appear.
Opening windows, savoring the season's flair.
We, the mad ones.
We see the Taj Mahal, in that moment,
tell me truly, oh innocent one,
from what land are you, from what sun?
Your form, a Marathi grace, precise and fine,
your Rajput valor, a fearless shine.
Locks of Bengal, dark as night,
an Assam serpent, in your light.
Your glance, a Bihari art,
Odisha's joy within your heart.
Andhra's salt, in which you're steeped,
a Kashmiri bloom, so deeply kept.
Lucknow's elegance, in you it lies,
Madhya Pradesh's mischief in your eyes.
Madras' freshness, a vibrant hue,
Mysore's fragrance, sandalwood true.
Gujarat's innocence, you embrace,
Kerala's lamp, lighting up the space.
Goa's revelry, you have found,
Punjab's vigor, health profound.
Delhi, your heart, a capital's art,
The whole wide world, in love with your heart.
We see the Taj Mahal, in that moment,
when they embrace a stretch,
when they raise their arms, so freely.
Opening windows, savoring the season's flair.
We, the mad ones, who breathe the fresh air,
opening windows, savoring the season's flair.
We, the mad ones.
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