Daya

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In whispering woods I Chhind stand alone,

A timeless witness carved in stone—

Rooted deep where shadows dance,

My heart beats slow in nature’s trance.


I’ve felt the sun’s warm, golden kiss,

The trembling dew, a quiet bliss;

Known the sorrow, known the strife,

The woven threads of fragile life.


Children’s eyes like fireflies gleam,

Flickering faint in hunger’s dream;

Mothers bend with whispered prayers,

Hope entwined in earth and air.


Then she arrived—a gentle flame,

Her soul untouched by greed or fame.

Soft footsteps through the morning hush,

A spirit calm, a sacred hush.


Her cloak was simple, worn with grace,

Unraveling the frantic pace.

Light as feathers on the breeze,

She lifted burdens with such ease.


Patience rooted, deep and wide,

Like ancient trees that never hide.

She trusted rivers slow and sure,

To shape the earth and hearts endure.


In silent marches, legal fights,

She bore the torch for juster rights.

Her hands, a balm, her voice a song,

A healing light to carry on.


Daya—kindness in her name,

A gentle fire, a steady flame.

She dreamed of schools where children learn,

Of open doors, of hearts that yearn.


She holds their stories, soft and sweet,

Like fragile fruit in summer heat.

Not savior, sister, hand in hand,

Together walking sacred land.


Her spirit now breathes through the trees,

A promise carried on the breeze.

A daughter of the forest’s grace,

Her love alights this holy place.

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