Politically born you are
Your head is counted
Twice over, maybe thrice
There is fear that we are
Declining in numbers
There is fear of being swarmed
Over by foreigners
You, my child
Even as you learn to speak your first word
There are tensions soaring
On your chakumba numit,
Murders two non-manipuris
In broad daylight at the bazaar.
You, when you took your first walk
From me to your father,
There was the demand to secede the hills of Manipur.
Your bedtime stories are of good girls
Who win over giants by their sheer kindness
Maybe I should tell you of the Manipuri lores
Of hingchabis, of baneshees,
The ones my Imabok told me.
Because good is scarcely found,
I want to arm you with courage,
And maybe some words,
Incase you do find
Those giants who might listen to you.