Home > Poems > Men in the Rain

Men in the Rain

In the midst of winter, bleak and forlorn,
The world wakes up to a rain-soaked morn.

Those with the luxury, slip back under the covers
While many brace themselves to get drenched in the showers.

With the burden of a livelihood seeming heavier today,
Bus drivers, hawkers, workmen go on their way.

I sit in my room, a cup of hot tea in my hand,
Looking out of my window at this sorry band.

As I return the bold gaze of one who has stopped to stare,
My eyes fly to the cross nestled in his wet chest hair.

A realization hits-I share his god, his race, his final destiny,
But he cannot share my material world-what a cruel irony!

I find others like him-the denizens of streets
Within whose rugged exterior a human heart beats.

We survive on the legacies of their eternal labour-
The food we eat, the clothes we wear, pleasures we favour.

They are the unsung Atlases of our frail society.
We hold them in contempt, yet they are so mighty.

The lameness, the futility of luxury and opulence
Creates in my soul a storm, a turbulence.

The foundation of my universe is totally shaken-
The walls of caste and creed are suddenly broken.

Yes, they are my brothers-all those who are walking away,
For we were molded by the same Potter, from the very same clay.

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