got invited sometimes
to sit with people of distinctions
got a problem thought with what to wear
what to say and how to say it
they may look at me with dismay
and this fear lurks with me forever
so i decided to shy away from said catastrophe
not that i cannot be with peers and primes
but i may too be another arrogant man
sitting along with their arrogance too
i pass this time
choosing to be with the common man
in the market standing by the crab stall
and looking intently on the faces of
anxious people who are struggling to live
on daily basis on meager income and
on man inflected oppressions,
a poor man give me smoke
unable to distinguish me from my
old coat smelling like a rotten fish.
how kind can poor people be.
how candid. how earth rooted
feeling always the suffering of others
but never telling somehow.
they never know how to write.
who writes for them? this is where
i start. Perhaps, the scene of wanton poverty
shall diminish my arrogance
kill my indifference.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem