Hey guys 🙂
Another old poem. On the lives of the poor as I see it.
Every morn, I wander, from huts to mansions,
Begging for money, clothes and food.
‘Tis an arduous life, that of the poor;
Asking housemaids and landlords for provisions,
Bearing all the behaviors, rude.
I’m a farmer, no land to farm,
I struggle for a day’s meal.
Endlessly working at the zamindar’s field;
Constantly staying away from harm;
and sometimes, powerless, we just yield.
Searching for just a little food;
To feed my family of six.
A little wheat, a little rice,
But no, people remain as unfeeling as wood.
Alas! There are but a few remaining nice.
I meet my pals-like-me at the Grand Slums,
We chat for a while and exchange news;
Go back by afternoon, to resume begging.
To get some money, we try not to be glum.
Then, we shall, at the station, the loads be lugging.
My sons, ten and fifteen,
Have neither happiness nor education.
They slave and help me in my tasks, to earn
some money; they are to them, very mean.
My poor sons, how their hearts must burn!
Like this, we remain alive;
For how long, we know not.
No joy, no peace of mind.
Yet we must; we will survive.
I foresee a revolution, which will unbind
us from agony and the terrors of soul.
This, only this, will be our goal,
To uplift ourselves from poverty;
And to lead ourselves to power and prosperity!!
— — —
Peace Out \/