Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are our cities whose lustre is shed,
The laughter and the beauty of woman long dead;
The sowrd of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall gather, what dream shall we sow ?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait :
The voice of the wind is the vice of our fate.
------- Sarojini Naidu
