Poem – Born to Die

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)