The Poor

a poem by Christuraj Alex

With toasts of sincere, solo styles,
When the poor folk flock before me;
Sad sunken strife-stricken soul-smiles,
Bodies, broken; hearts free and glee!

Solid, sappy, strong stems, sojourned,
Skin shrunk now; back-bone giving way;
Will, that has their death-date adjourned,
Though live like reeds in breath to sway…

They have built your mansion and mine,
Carried boulders; constructed our walls;
Cities, citadels, shrines so fine,
Built all; risking tumbles and falls…

They produce food and sleep hungry,
Give shelters living shelter-less;
Clothes they weave pervade the country,
They’re nude not for trend; they’re cloth-less…

With teeth of white pomegranate seeds,
They smile as though never conquered;
Their spirits are high midst tear beads,
As their optimism undaunted…