In a white night
After a dark day,
I was jogging around the busy streets.
When got a glance. Of stale
and weary creature:
Bare footed and dressed
in tattered threads.
Dirt shrouded his white stinky skin
That hosted dust and flies’ wings,
Had chapped lips and sore eyes.
For an onlooker he was:
A walking dead.
(Was ripped off by mercy of an angry god)
For him life is nothing but
wound uncured.Like a bird
engulfed by storm or a butterfly:
for a child’s charm.
So was he: fettered and bound.
A roving vagabonds.
(pity that mocks our handicapped world)
In response to my childish quarries.
He smiled and voiced:
Our life story ends in words two:
‘Born to die’
(An irony of the cultured being)