Poor question would be if I ask
who am I? '
Nothing but the stone that been used,
To build the highway
where your Ferrari and Mercedes rides.
Little ostensibly naked is my child,
An epithet for poverty ridden existence,
Overwhelming inspiration if I am not wrong,
You paint my scorched dehydrated lips
You write poetry on my burning heels,
And speech on hunger, you deliver,
On speechless torn vest owner,
Maintaining all social morale distance.
What about the end of our life..!
I write with my child's tears now,
253