The Odyssey of a Neglected God
Arrayed in hoary garb, they moil with their melodies;
Sorrows muster in their heart and gush:
Despite, they stop their jingles and pulleys.
Eyes blur and muscles of their rust;
They put out their enervated hand and stroke all the pains apart!
And produce winsome goods, feeding their 'maliks' esurient carts.
Whizzing time came to a standstill: due to a virus -
Their pulleys under-seize and teensy stipend interrupt!
Walking miles with air, cold breezes dare - no sign of the Cyrus.
Their timorous children asked: “‘Pitaji’ when our destination crop-up?”
Police battered them, wearing their woven attires,
They beseeched their 'maliks' for food which they prepare:
Their innocent children shivered in gelid weather - "Oh, even the roads they walked
were in- despair!"
But not, not their 'maliks', who slept with blankets made of their warmth,
“Huh! All fake, all fake - liars these rich are!"
No-matter, they are in the hands of leviathan:
They travail for their avaricious 'maliks' like a Sebastian!
Indeed, they are our labourers, who embrace crucifixion.
What we are without their exertion?
Hail the God amidst! Hail before they vanish!