Celebrating Poverty

With sound high I come, with my agenda and my manifesto,
I celebrate poverty for usual victors only,
I shout poverty-poverty for dead and defeated persons.
A defeated man’s thoughts of schools,
A defeated man enjoying freebies and never-ending rest,
Blooms with life itself, cannot have.

Now I know the masses and the leaders;
And these I observe these begging eyes,
Those fables of mystic voyages are all meaningless.
Villas equipped with an immoral wealth
Sailing to the bottomless dark seas
Marching on the soul’s cruise.

Lots of aimless boys and girls, herding in schools and colleges
Learning erroneous education, bunking classes.
Missionaries and Maulanas making fast bucks.
And you India creating a fake Utopia ;
Crying the real reckoning for her lot,
The shadows of your future, evil and evil.

Flow, Flow the finest wind of Democracy,
Value thy beauty, ’tis not the freebies only
The Duty and sacrifice are also amassing in thee.
Thou embrace freeloaders alone,
Not of suckers contingent alone,
Nation floats on morals and character.

A nation is built by merit and honesty;
With her Time tours with pride
With all her ancient scriptures, martyrs, heroes.
Fought wars, thou bore the many crowns
The message of love and compassion;
Seers bless her with divine hands and sparkling eyes.

O countrymen, thou carries priestly nation sails with thee
And great sagely India sails with thee
Don’t celebrate poverty, and sing poverty.
I roam and invoke my sole,
And what I believe all will believe,
For each grain belongs to one as good belongs to you.

Schools and hospitals are all free;
Born dissatisfied while sufficed, but never happy;
Harbor is always bad, fleeing at every hazard.
Rush for a loaf at their ease watching a coughing leader,
His tongue, each atom of his blood, created from this soil and air,
Now in perfect health and budding youth sick like death.

In thick walls of abode, in huts, sleeps hunters after day’s sport-begging;
The village sleeps, the town sleeps and the country sleeps;
The dead sleep for their sins, the living sleep ruining their time.
They tend poor and hungry; old, young wise much as the fools,
Stuffed with the stuff that is coarse and immoral;
Southerners as well as Northerner-sternest burden on the earth.

For leaders, those were good to gain pleasures,
Excellent to fall and lost, everything is lost in that dust;
Which they raised and won.
They eat the pound of the sick;
They blow through their poverty-loudest and merriest for them;
Worshipping those with so many pangs of hunger.

Those are with an empty vessel to sink the nation!
Those will themselves, sink all!
They will sink all the national vessels in the dark sea.
Fake Generals are in arms with those who sank
And the generals won powers have defeated heroes!
Living in the dark world or Narcissa who sank.

Spreading gloom that stopped playing kids,
The meadows have turned bald and barren;
Even brides and grooms have faded.
Space has fallen short and dirty;
Cry of merit and hard work shaking heaven and earth;
A choked voice filled with fear and silence in the air.

Dew of dawn has stopped cheering children,
Mad rush for the work-less work rings the bell;
Screeching tyres were stopped by free-loaders.
Inhabitants are throbbing for liberation, into nature;
Struggling for means usually than usual –
Hating their face in the garden of unseen shores.

The wrinkled clerk spoke unclearly past his torrid glasses,
Wheezing in and out, head and heart waggled unknowingly,
I muttered a “have a nice day” back in the dark.
Running for freebies throughout life,
To auction them in the charity market,
The clerk cried,” No more bagging!”

None realised that all are becoming old wags,
All are reaching the failed abode of pain,
Of aimless life, of the day after day melancholy.
Lost in a perennial intoxication of nothingness,
Till death, till Yama on buffalo blown he bugle
To wake everyone of their sins and glory.

The loss was invisible in the din and noise,
Now it will be a national shame and curse,
Faster, diminishing the splendour and energy.
In these days of shifting stands,
Living is bogged by troubles and pains;
Wounding the body and the soul.

Eyes always cry for heavenly bliss,
To hear the music of thrill without hiccups,
Where every crumb of food flavour is venomous with pain.
Where even Lord’s hymns sound jarring,
Where the melodious voices irks mind,
Where each breathing is filled with ache.