Nameless struggle
These are not my dreams
Didn’t have pleasure of driving
Golden chariot,
nor did I ever
don Golden fleece, gold rimmed
saris never decked my small
improvised cupboard, for tiny
hut was my luxury and dwelling.
Call it poor man’s karma?
Or our ancestral curse;
self-made attire, washed, dried,
indoors cloth liner, feast for eyes
covering up vacuum and patches
of our have not colored faces;
children’s
tattered shirts and
gowns with often stitched edges
are the price paid for daily wages?
Call it poor man’s karma?
Or our ancestral curse;
End of the day
curl up
like puppy on a pyal of
Cemented mound only
to wake up for great ordeal.
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