Rich, Poor And Those Things

They call you a tale, fair and square.

They term me a sigh, none to share.

 

A wardrobe overflown, a closet full of gold, you bear the name who big officials turn sold.

You have the privilege to choose a pile of cake; from Gucci or Prada, you name it and its made.

 

A very small hutment is where I stay, half a day's food is all I pray.

A mother too weak has compelled me to work day night and get my pay.

They term me a sigh too petty for care, they frown at my odour on day's end I bear.

 

Up above the world so high, I stay all numb and know no cry.

The ground gave you and me the same share, why is it just me who has to bear?

Don't they see my hands all red, through pain a girl of 10 being led?

 

That's not fate, that's not penance, but all is a tyranny that their sober selves have ruled.

Voices too less, no face to resolute, they walk past me and stare all brute.

 

Well, my day's end is in your smile, for the gay eve you render me.

We both play and dance and sing, and all the tire turns to glee.

Up above the world so high, the sky is blue and all is fine.

Happy I am, and I'm not afraid, as that's where I am being blessed and prayed.