We are bequeathed on the nation,
And the nation bequeathed to us.
Have pride they said,
For it is the only one in the universe.

Culture! Culture! Cried the painter,
Oldest of the old.
A single stroke, a blazing hue,
He drew as he was told.

The nation in all its feminine divinity,
A trident and a halo.
He drew as he had drawn before,
With a saffron brush.

The mural stood in all its glory,
Under the warrior’s watch.
Till a bullet pierced his spine,
And he died while yet on his watch.

Again the painter with his saffron brush was called,
To paint over the blood stained wall.
As the warrior looked on,
Remembering his fallen comrade,
Humming the age old serenade.

We are bequeathed on the nation,
And the nation bequeathed to us.
Have pride they said,
For it is the only one in the universe.