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.