The one that I pray—
|Image from Google|
I don't see.
The one that I long—
It never comes.
The one that they say is my protector,
Is perhaps, million miles away.
The one that I think is my benefactor,
Is perhaps deaf and blind.
The one who yearns to build emperor,
Has failed to protect my hut.
The one who guards the granaries,
Has chased me hungry.
The bridge that connects me to the centre,
Is ruined by the summer's shower.
The words that I yelled in pain and grief,
Has become the robust wind's food.
The one that came to my rescue,
Has come hastily empty-handed.
The one that has sent him to me,
Snores and groans in the glass' grace.
The one that goes to report that I've fallen,
Says, “It's his mistake to go far remote.”
The one who walks has no duty,
The one who speaks his feelings has no beauty,
The one in the remote has no life,
The one at the centre has no power of knife.
The sufferers must go on struggling,
Until the one, who has slept, wakes up.
If the one who has lived for a century
Has enjoyed for a century,
How many centuries of sufferings,
Have we survived in a century?
From the life and experience of Bangalore, India
Written on 02/05/2011.