Expatriate
Expatriate
I am a migrant worker;
Crossed a long way of hardship
To earn regular supper,
And etched pain on my body
Every day to get my wage.
You may call it only wheat-
It is a gold drop for me!
For you, it is only flour-
But seems diamond dust for me!
You call it country liquor!
For me, the most effective
Donor of rest, sleep and peace.
My child eagerly waits for
Some torn, discarded dresses
From your little one's wardrobe!
For my malnourished children
Only attraction to school
Is a plate of mid day meal.
I have lost my crops and farm,
I have lost my land and home.
I dream of two wings of fire,
But my life remains scattered
Over the sky-high rooftops
Of your prestigious Manson,
Over the roads and bridges,
Also through miles of rail tract.
Your ornaments and garments
Shine bright in my tears and sweat.
I am only a digit
In the epic register
Or below poverty line.
I remain puzzled between
Directions and flags as well!
Sometimes between right and left,
Between red, green and orange,
And between voting buttons.
My return journey gets creased
In between the cross borders.
Somehow we all are migrant!
From our heavenly shelter.
To deal with the earthly facts,
Our feet get scorched, hands are burnt.
Till then, we live, and we fight,
Accept gruelling present
To fix our unseen future!
We hate to quit but have to!
One day our contract expires,
Contract of a deep struggle.
Finally, we have to leave
Debilitated body-
And a wounded, bleeding mind.