We are the mad ones,
Breathing the freshest air,
We are the mad ones,
Who open windows, savoring the weather's dare.
Who open windows, savoring the weather's dare.
Who open windows, savoring the weather's dare.
We are the mad ones.
The Taj Mahal blooms in my sight,
Tell me, my innocent one, tell me true,
From what land do you hail, my view?
Your form, a Marathi grace, refined,
Your spirit, Rajput, bold and kind.
Your tresses, black as Bengal's night,
A Naga whisper in your light.
Your gaze, a Bihari art,
Odisha's joy within your heart.
Andhra's salt, in you, it dwells,
A Kashmiri bud, your being tells.
Lucknow's finesse, in every line,
Madhya Pradesh mischief, yours and mine.
Madras' simplicity, a gentle hue,
Mysore's fragrance, in all you do.
Gujarat's naiveté, a tender gleam,
Kerala's lamp, a waking dream.
Goa's revelry, in your embrace,
Punjab's vigor, time cannot erase.
Your heart, Delhi's reigning throne,
Your heart, Delhi's reigning throne,
The world, your lover, all alone,
The world, your lover, all alone.
The Taj Mahal blooms in my sight,
The Taj Mahal blooms in my sight,
When she stretches, in morning light,
When she stretches, in morning light,
Her hand aloft, a wondrous sight,
Her hand aloft, a wondrous sight.
Who open windows, savoring the weather's dare.
Who open windows, savoring the weather's dare.
Who open windows, savoring the weather's dare.
We are the mad ones.
|
