Seasons Of Poverty

Summers:

Kishan wakes up with the smell of rotis,

He comes out of his slum, and noticed;

 His mother was garnishing them with salt, and serving with water

To his father, before he leaves and the day gets hotter.

He hugged his parents and asked

If he was also going to do the task.

His mother fondled him and said,

“Have food first, or else heat will turn your head red.”

He tore the roti and enjoyed his mother’s love,

Without any moan.

He and his mother left for the fields

And his father left for the mill.

Growing paddy was a play for him,

Even the burning sun was not disturbing his will.

Working hard from dusk to dawn,

Today, another hand was born.

At night, he lay on the ground, looking up at the blue

 “I’ll work and earn to make a house that’ll touch the moon.”

He announced to himself and the stars.

Rain:

“Ma, look what I found.”

He said giving her mangoes weighing an ounce.

But his happiness couldn’t last long,

The rain and wind drained it all.

The woods were soggy, so do the rice.

But to them, even that was nice.

Though water was dripping in the slum,

The food was underdone but

They were together that was enough.

Autumn:

The festival season was coming,

So, the preparations were running.

Someone’s junk became someone’s treasure,

Even old stuff had the new one’s pleasure.

Poverty was not a hump in the festival of lights,

Not the lamps but the love and belief made it bright.

There were no complaints about the paucity,

But prayers for everyone’s prosperity.

 They knew the real essence of festival;

Celebration but not boaster.

Winter:

The fog blurred the vision

But not the paths.

When working is the only mission,

Then one cannot worry ‘bout the temperature’s maths.

Why would you need a heater,

When the warmth among the family is your sweater.

 No breeze is cold enough

To freeze their objectives to work.

Having cough is rare in a slum,

‘Cause there are problems more tougher.

Spring:

The land gets back its life,

Gratification and worship all around.

Kishan had tasted the slice,

Of experience and hard work in life.

Seasons changed but not the conditions.

Though he is poor

He knows to find happiness in pain.

To him, life is what?

It is just ever going struggle,

For one day, not to struggle.