A Piece Of Newspaper Poem by Akhtar Jawad

Ordinary men have no worth.
There is no value of ordinary people!
Like insects they are born in slums,
Their breath, intolerably bad smells,
they feed on wastes,
but
germs and viruses
both tremble and are afraid of them.
Then
how ordinary people die?
If you don't know, listen to me,
this is the world of might,
life is a story of oppression,
whenever the insects suffocate
they come out of the gutter.
Only fresh air and clean food they dream,
their dream is not of the maiden fairies.
And then
the Angel of death comes,
kneads the insects with his shoes,
brings a piece of newspaper
while the insect is half alive,
from this piece he picks up it
and puts it in the dustbin.
Alas! He could not see.
My Lord, forgive him,
On the piece of the newspaper
Your name was printed on the top!