I read about the English,The Germans and the French
The tales of war,victory and surrender
The colonies are a memory,distant dusty history
By the lakeside,I sat watching the ripples and reflections
Green water,Blue sky,a lost face and few thoughts

The colonies are a memory,distant dusty history
But the scars lie beneath the books,a painful story
Paintings all around with the crimson red,Why I prefer blue?
My heart lies with that river,sparkling silver blue
White present,dark memories,a lost cause and grey thoughts

I belong somewhere away,far where everyone likes blue
They say river Saraswati disappeared,was my home
Unheard about the river,lives the ignorant homeless few
I sleep crying all night and dream of the river I knew
Alone in a crowd of vivid,I hope to go back soon

Not to the river,that flows beneath earth,green and brown
Or to  fight time,or the Portuguese King and queen
Yes,They went to Goa,my ancestors away from our river
Temples built with pride,a new home and a new beggining
I can feel the echoes,even now in the Ponda air

They sang songs,built houses and spoke too fast
A new language,a new hope..But soon it ended too
With the colonial powers from Europe landed in the shores
They fled again to the south,to the coastal lands new
They scatterd like sand,all across the beaches and towns

Still without a land,they live with the different natives
They all like blue,in a world of crimson red
Still without knowing,where is our home,why we fled
I sit by the lakeside,knowing who I am.
But the friction of thoughts,never heals with time

I read about the English,The Germans and the french
The tales of war,victory and surrender
The colonies are a memory,distant dusty history
Never thought I will be part of those tales
I still sit in pain,in search of a home,Painted blue

-Kris