Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Poverty Poem

The Laborer

In the sizzling heat of the afternoon
Clothes drenched and shoes filled with sweat
Last nights long shift makes the body ache
In growing age when the muscle is the only strength
The will like faith growing stronger with each passing day
A disease knocking at the visceral parts of the body
Joints now like the hinges in the machine need oil
Moved in hundreds and like all others
Away from the family and the little ones memory
A letter from the home in need of money
For the doctor’s fee as education is forlorn desire
Minimum wage half robbed by the supervisor
And like a true competition in economics
Out on the metal gates a replacement is waiting
Alienated from the production of the product
Creating surplus for the consumption of the rich
His toils are in the shine of the markets in goods glittering
Unaware of the political upheaval
No care for his welfare
He has no future; his children will also work like him
The power of the muscle, will and faith
He is a laborer who if not given the job
Will go for a daily wage and sleep on the road side
Poverty is his bread, poverty his butter
Poverty that alienates
Poverty the missing link
Poverty the slogan
Poverty it said is loved by the prophets
Poverty it said is gods chosen creed
Poverty the banner
Poverty the tears
Poverty the helplessness
Poverty the consciousness
Break it free
The ordained writing on the book of fate
To bring it down
Open its pages
Remove the names
Of all the people poor
Break it free
The pages they call divine
For divinity is me
Divinity is you
For I shall write
My own destiny
On the book of fate
Up from the skies
Down to the earth
In poverty I will live
But on my own choosing
Break the bond
Of eternal slavery
Poverty
Thou art the bitterest vice

Sadiqullah Khan

2 Comments:

Anonymous Armando Vencer said...

Viva la lucha! Down with the fascists GMA, Esperon, Gonzales and the Satanic mastermind, Fr. Intengan. Remember James Balao, Jonas Burgos, and the countless other martyrs of our countless poor and oppressed. In the fashion of Ho Chi Minh, let our poets draw blood, not from their veins, but from the vile hearts of the oppressors.

10:41 PM  
Blogger frank said...

viva!

10:41 AM  

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