बुधवार, 28 अप्रैल 2021

They would come..

They would come at you..
They all would come at you..
To put you down..
To keep you down..
To curse you..
To condemn you..
They would look down..
Upon you, your being ..
And everything about you..
From Conch to Coconut..
From Tilak to the Thread..
From Living to the Dead..
From Lamp to the  Pyre..
Homam to the Funeral Fire..
You do not subscribe ..
To their school,their pool..
Rough at the edges..
Unpolished to the core..
Your existence is a thorn..
You were best not born..
In their silky soft robe..
My Lords of the phobe..
And you wouldn't know..
They are your very own..
Be ready,willing to yield..
Just put your head down..
Looking at the Buker..
Eyes at the Pulitzer..
For a few US dollars..
For a few shining collars..
They would sell you out..
You shan't have a doubt..


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