My glasses

My glasses

When I see through my dust-laden looking glasses
For want of a soft, hand kerchief, handy and embroidered,
Not the libidinous one playing havoc in cherub like Desdemona,
This cloth was dropped in the moving bus, how much of wants
and wishes to be fulfilled, I see, men and matter are
Sandwiched between what not and where;
Nearby a bunk a lanky boy in rags selling a lottery ticket
To recharge the battery of his living, lacking the education
even minimal to blame the society or discreet enough to
convert his birth to his advantage, not vile enough to
blame his parents to have brought him to this soil
of adversity and bonded lab our, cannot but think of his
sister with myriad dreams of her future but scratching her
hair domineered by lice and dandruff, soon a stern call
from her step- mother to fetch a pail of water from the
adjoining well, failing which not a drop of tea to quench her
thirst, I bend down to pick up my spectacles, fallen on the
mound, only to see the scratches, so much more to see through
the distorted lines, somuch to see through humanity
so profound to understand the living space.