Umbilical cord- an ode to the unsung
This poem is an ode to the thousands of nameless of labourers, cab drivers, house helps, watchmen, who work thousands of miles away from their home for some money.
Sequestered, stranded in soulless solitude,
Derided till dulled, drudgery forever devalued,
Mind meanders to his mansion's memories,
Sweat soaked shirt swings back to his salaries.
A family he had, back where he lived.
A million dreams, with his wife he'd conceived.
But, curse the Life's cruel bends,
He, now but a labourer to meet his ends.
Each night, when the sweat dried
Each night, when his limbs ceased to ache
Each night when he would remember those he left behind
Each night he would sleep wide awake.
Then he played one day, a song of his land,
Felt his wife and kids gently hold his hand
That night, he slept like a Lord,
curled in peace, around Music's umbilical cord.
-Shivam
