The Sad Story of Indian Medi
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Media houses precisely as HT filled with criminal tendencies and supported by constitutional courts that give a blind eye to everything even going, to use foreign nationals to foment disturbances in the country in the name of their version of justice and democracy which is going utterly opposite to anything divine or sane for the populace of the country.
Rather than forwarding the case of democracy or any kind of divinity, this time they forwarded the case of criminalising and anything to justify their clinging on to power to the extent, I slowly find them to be supporters of imperialism in the true sense. In the name of the poor, in the name of law and order, their motive just remains the same, distort and disturb the country.
Sad but true, nationals like Charles Sobhraj and such were fed and provided succour with Indian money or the HNIs of India who had their sway in polity and are now being used to serve ethnic interests.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archdukes,
My cousin, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, and what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
— Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.
