It does not freeze, but nights are cold in the capital; brave farmers camp on the threshold of the capital. Farm bills are passed by a voice vote, without counting; surprising things are bought and sold in the capital. Ministers pace and kick at walls; they remember: we don’t always do as we are told in the capital. The British jailed us when we spoke about freedom; our rulers now are just as bold, in the capital. These days, they lock students inside Tihar Jail; dissent and thought are still controlled in the capital. Last night, goons failed once more to clear protest sites— the farmers’ strength is unequaled in the capital. Why would a no-name poet sing of this darkness? See the courage here, friends, behold: it’s our capital!