The Drought

Parched, thirsty they stare at the sky,

Knowing their masters will never care,

Barren land, barren dreams,

Even death itself is thirsty there.

Drinking filth and living hell,

Eyes crying but tears don’t fall,

Their leaders busy playing violence,

No one they trusted carries balls.

Watches Shivaji from heavens high,

Pride sinking low in shame,

The land he shed his blood for,

Lies thirsty, writhing in pain.

Not far from where the death does walk,

Their masters build a rich man’s hill,

Dining, wining, breathing power,

While farmers land lies untilled.

He who feeds the hungry us,

Starving, watches in despair,

Hoping for the safari suits,

To wake up, maybe grow a pair.

And lost are few in glamour and fame,

Not far from them, lives are cursed,

Dancing, singing, living in style,

Stuffing lives in their purse.

Not one voice heard, not a cry made,

No one stepped out to raise a shout,

Mumbai lives the luxurious nights,

Maharashtra spends the days in drought.

Drying Wells

Water Scarcity

 

Begging for a life

My eyes pour out and words all fail,

When I see the plight of this Indian lot,

Whose day starts when the world is dreaming,

And ends long after the sun goes out,

Weak and dirty they walk the street,

Begging  for a coin of life all day,

Searching for lunch in the trash,

In blind hope of making some hay,

Pleading outside the palace of gods,

Hungry, abused, get chased away,

The god is bathing in the milk,

Insulting their hunger, every day,

Days, months and years roll by,

The world may change but life is hell,

Outside those lavish shopping malls,

Standing wearing a putrid smell,

Comes the minister, ribbon’s cut,

They sleep under those bridges high,

Ignored by the growth we see,

They stand right in front of our eyes,

And heartless, cowards we have become,

Flip a coin and pat our self,

At every corner life is crying,

But we only feel sympathy for them.