The world is a home to us,
Still we’re homeless.
My son searches for comfort by hugging my body,
While I lie helplessly on those dusty pavements of road,
I manage to steal those crumps of bread for him,
Holding those tears inside.
I just wish my obligations of poverty,
Don’t kill my integrity.
With open hands and containers,
I stand midst those crowds.
Managing to collect dust in both,
I beg to relieve my hunger,
And seek some mercy.
Walking those posh areas I realized,
Their face reflects the same on those car mirrors as that of mine, they’re no different than me.
Just covered up with privileges and luck!
Just my poverty can’t be given a facade,
The dullness and failure against this fate screams through me and I feel weak!
Ragpicker is what they named me
But all I could collect from the society were the Shattered pieces of Humanity.
Caucasiod, Mongoloid, Rich or poor These hands conjoint’
We are one, we are alike’
Only the words and pictures on the political party’s logo were a society’s pseudo smile.
They tell us we’re no different,
But each day treat me nothing like a human.
By Kirti Changlani
Instagram : @kirtichanglani
Nice poem