Amidst the land of my forefathers;
Stood a Hall praised for its excellence.
The whites who roam our borders;
Extol it greater than theirs.
A hall filled with great carvings;
Of horns and skulls that fills the pillars.
Decorated by those dexterous hands;
The hands that are molded in such Morungs.
Music of different notes echoes.
Echoes out sweetly from the Morung.
Laughter and joys fills the sky,
Round the great pot of sweet rice beer.
The Hall where community spirit harbors;
The place where histories lives on.
Poetries and songs are constantly essayed,
A place where ideas and views are furnished.
Epicenter of social development;
Pillars of social order and systems.
From art of living to techniques of war;
Lives of a Naga were shaped here.
All these are now gone and buried;
All because of some morons,
Who decried it as inventions of evils,
When they could have adapt to the new faith.
With the dawn of Morung;
Was the community spirit.
And a rise of individualism;
While greed vile our generous minds.
Social systems and orders were broken
Links of histories were detached.
Songs and poetries were sung no more;
And buried with it is our culture.
And now left with nothing,
With our head held low;
We are going back to the whites;
To know how my forefather lives.
Alas! I lament for the changes now and then.
Wish I were a Naga but of those times;
Where I could roam naked freely.
And when the night comes;
Would go to my Morung
To sing that joyous songs of Freedom.
