The Sacred Song of Beas

From the ice and snow of Rohtang’s crest,

Where mountain winds sing, and spirits rest,

Springs forth the sacred, life-giving thread,

The river Beas — the soul widespread.

Born where Guru Gorakhnath once tread,

In whispers of legends long since said,

Not mere water that flows and gleams,

But a mother weaving ancient dreams.

She journeys down through valleys deep,

Where pine trees murmur and willows weep,

Through villages cradled by her song,

A pulse of life, forever strong.

But now her voice is sharp with pain,

Beneath the skies and rising strain—

For selfish hands have torn the earth,

Disturbing sacred ground’s own birth.

The forests fall, the mountains bleed,

Concrete spreads like a creeping weed,

Where once the birds in chorus soared,

Now silence falls — a haunting chord.

The hillsides stripped, the soil laid bare,

The river’s cry, a whispered prayer—

“Remember me, the mother true,

Whose breath is life, whose soul is you.”

Yet greed moves swift, relentless, blind,

No heed to what it leaves behind.

The sacredness, the peace, the calm,

Now shaken by the human harm.

O children of this blessed land,

Can you not see, can you not stand?

To guard the river, guard the trees,

And honor earth’s old melodies.

For Beas is more than water’s flow—

She holds our past, and future’s glow.

Protect her now, before she dies,

Or watch your own heritage demise.

From Rohtang’s heights to valley low,

The river’s sorrow begins to grow.

Will we awaken, heed the call?

Or let the sacred mother fall?

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