A Flag is not a chequered band of colors
With a mosaic of celestial bodies
Or a selection of nature’s or man’s designs and derivatives.
It is stream of conscience
An ethos of a people
It is the high tide of sacrifice
That surges up to the skies to flutter.
It is the dream that filtered through long nights of bondage.
In the whirr of its flutters you listen
The hoarse voices of martyrs
Embracing every kind of death without demur
Reverberating to the limits of cosmos
Making their promises to the future.
In its shade lies the strength of a nation
Not a piece of land with some connotation.