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Yogeshwar Dayal Mathur



Yogeshwar Dayal Mathur


The migrants

The migrants

2 mins 190 2 mins 190

Foursome on highway

A man and his wife 

Son and teenage daughter 

A family of four

Daily wage earners 

Called migrant workers ! 

Our country men

Dejected and shattered

Livelihood battered

Misguided and misinformed

Feeling of left over 

Sense of helplessness

Overwhelmed with a thought

To escape from present plight

Embarked on an a journey 

To reach their home 

A Paradise to them

At far end of the Highway

Quietly they sneaked 

Through boundaries of States

Avoiding the identity 

As “ ours and their ”

Walking all through 

By days and by nights 

Covering hundreds of miles 

Not once lost sight of their home 

At far end of the road

Under sky at night

Rested for breath

Under shadows of trees 

They dried their sweat

Load of belongings on their heads

Drooping shoulders with heavy bags

Soiled clothes and torn shoes 

Swollen heels with blistered feet

Scorching heat as sun was harsh

Walked on sides of burning road

All through days and all through nights 

Nothing deterred their thought to flight

To reach their Home

At far end of the way


When asked by media 

Where do you go ?

 Reply was short

' To home ' 

And spoke no more

While country slept, 

They did not sleep

The spectators wept

They did not weep

While blessed had meals 

They had nothing to eat

They tamed the hunger 

By licking salt on fingers 

Kindness descended some days 

With platters of food on the way 

Gratis accepted showing no gratitude 

Buds of emotions numbed in them

By flame of desire burning in them

Thirteen days and thirteen nights 

Relentlessly they walked 

Days and nights were one to them

Fourteenth morning was day of awakening 

In light of dawn the Paradise was seen

Sigh of relief to beleaguered minds

Walloping tears for rest to eyes

Cries of joy were loud and wide

Filled ambience from earth to sky


Hearty welcome at their Home

Amidst emotional family reunion

The gloom got drowned

As ordeal was over 

The trauma forgotten


Absence was conspicuous

Organisers were missing !

To honour the Heroes of Road

Not for, short runs, up to a mark 

But for a Barefoot Cross Country Walk ! 


Greatest Organiser 

Of all events of universe

Almighty GOD was there 

To honour The Desperadoes 

With the Tallest Reward 


This poem is dedicated 

To millions of Migrant Workers

Who were still on the roads 


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