A Migrant Speaks

           A Migrant Speaks    

I’m a poor, impoverished Laborer from Bihar;

To feed my hungry family, I had to travel far;

I was offered a job in a Paper Mill in Bengal

So I left my village, and my small Tea Stall.

But suddenly without warning there was a 'Lockdown';

We tried in a frantic, last-minute hurry, to leave the town,

But there were no public buses, taxis or trains plying,

All our efforts were in vain; we had to give up trying!

From where we would get a morsel for our evening meal,

All eateries were closed; we had just no one to appeal!

There was no place to rest, or to lay our weary head,

Policemen chased us from pavements and rickety shed.

The only course left, was to walk miles to our village;

We had to walk on and on, not heeding the mileage!

So we trod all the way, till our feet were bruised and sore,

Bleeding and blistering, till we just could walk no more.

 No water, no food, sweltering and scorching in the sun,

 Walk, we had to, for a welcoming shelter there was none;

One by one, we dropped lifeless, on the humble alien dust,

Abandoned and helpless, for only our feet we could trust!