Once a month, twice a month,
many a festival to celebrate.
Fasting at times from dawn to dusk,
Feasting in joy for the rest.
Silk Saree's rustling in pomp,
Shimmering bangles chatter along.
Scent of jasmine flowers,
Aroma of ghee oozing sweets.
Ramadan, Diwali and Christmas,
Religions do not matter.
Gifts given in plenty,
to make everyone happy.
Spirit of celebration in the air,
filling warmth and joy everywhere.
Over there in a Little shack,
sweating over a greasy pack,
rough hands at work as always,
washing away dust on scooters.
Dents and grease fill their life,
fighting for food their only fate,
Celebrations do not matter here,
for those called the filthy poor.
3 comments:
You have presented the plight of the poor touchingly.
Thanks Arasu. That was my intent. During times of celebrations, the differences in lifestyle between have's and have-not's becomes very apparent.
so sad.. ;(
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