In the poor man's factory of thoughts,
His place is a palace. Indeed, it is!
The reality of him being a king has
Happened and will keep happening.
He imagines crowns, thrones, scepters
As if he has owned them forever.
Mastering the art of possession -
That is all that truly matters, nothing else.
When the ghost of hunger haunts him,
He exorcises his mind of such demons.
His holy water? Faith -
The faith that has become him.
Through his unceasing repetitive words of-
Believe, believe, believe, believe...
Should he be blind, he knows he'll see.
Should he be lame, he knows he'll walk.
When others opt for disconnection,
He would connect to a higher power,
Standing still through it all,
Even as his walls and ceiling fall apart.
Who could dare underestimate
The intensity of such optimistic dreaming
When all the sufferings of poverty is seen
As good, leading towards better,
Ultimately, bliss?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem