An elegy to the fallen brothers of Lamka uprising in the early autumn of 2015. Written at Petrapole Land Custom Station office on the 5th September 2015 at 6:25PM.

— Lian Samte

THAT I MAY
Lose not a tear,
Nor live in fear;
For the Brave had faced the pain,
A mere boy in cold-blood slain;
That I may in peace tread—
In my own land.

Dare now with the world dream,
Flow in the joy of oneness stream;
Fairer folks doth walk the lanes,
Young and old hath raised their hands;
That I may a freeman walk—
In my own land.

Once when I roam the Golden Strand,
Shall I see the Martyrs hand-in-hand;
Chin up, chest tight, and head held high,
Up my fist upon the sky;
That I may in honour shout—
Salute, brothers, salute!

Nameless Unity!

O, ye Nameless Unity!
Throng ye the hills in one concur,
With the zeal of incensed rancour;
Crying for freedom and autonomy,
Holding the fort against all odds!

O, ye Nameless Unity!
All but for a livid moment,
Ere silence the hills descend;
Then fall ye back to monotony,
Of in-house spats and squabbles!

Hear, O, ye Highlander!
The aged dragon would again rise,
From the ashes to loftier skies;
Gold and silver would he shower,
And shew ye another fated autumn!

Hear, O, Nameless Unity!
What for have ye come together?
To lose the cause and wither?
Nothing hath ye to lay claim,
Just an alien tag for a name;
To live for and to die for!

Irony, O, what an irony!
The early autumn wind of the valley,
Has blown all sepals of the lily;
Of the hills in one fraternity,
But I know not what to call thee—
O, ye Nameless Unity?