Ball and Bitterness

I was born to be kicked throughout my life-

Life of a victim on the whole.

And there! To smack me right in the face

Is the goalie at the goal.

I am untouchable by the hand,- 

My kickers are all alert.

Never, never let your hands close to me

Or the ref will raise the card!

Yes, I am kicked, thrown, hurled and booted

In ever-changing forms of fashion,

And seeing these stylish ways of torture

Spectators howl in passion.

Sports columns, live reports and fandoms:

Oh! This is but entertainment to them all!

Say, is that how you mock and scorn

Someone who serves you like a thrall?

When the air inside starts to lessen,

My inutility acts as excuse

For you to throw me out of the field at large 

And pump me again till fit for use.

Now I want to meet that boy 

Who stitched me to life.

I will go and tell him how we

Are the saddest beings alive.

How when with my brothers in his small room

I dreamt about the world outside,

I pictured a life full of escapades-

So unlike the one I abide.

I thought it would be much, much better

Than that poor, young lad

Who didn't mind being used by profiteers-

Thinking a few rupees was not as bad.

 He goes to the bazaar to sell what he makes,

And often returns with empty hands;

Yet sits down with work without a word,

For he knows well where he stands.

Complaining? Well, it's no point,

This is never going to change.

He and I - we'll remain victims,

With justice out of range.