The Plea Of The Poor

By Arihara Sudhan R

Born as though an aberration in our fate. Treated like an animal before a big gate. Most silver spoons use us as a bait, To increase their treasury weight. We just have a 4-digit credit. A trough in which it is unable to predict; We don't receive any affection; For we're rich with infection. We have lambs beyond border; But nothing to feed with fodder. With time our necessity becomes broader, Our desires are kindled to ash with tinder. Some have on us a deep sympathy; But restricted by fear to show empathy. Some even credit us with a penny. A day only with it would be zany.

Money is an immortal tyrant, Which crushes us like an ant. Fights in our life are abundant; And debt is the only remnant. Excpetions who help us really are true heroes; But they are threatened by multiple bureaus. A thirst for fame behind mass donation; Certainly there is a great abomination.

Smiles in our lambs are our only felicity;

Even that is deprived by the world's cruelty.

If we dwell among this insanity,

Will we reach serenity?

By Arihara Sudhan R