Moh Ishu

The doors are shuttin',
No windows creakin',
Only weak footprints
Against the cold winds.

No food nor shelter,
Neither clothes to spare;
The leaves run helter-skelter
Seeing his brass and muddy wear.

They fail to understand his pain
Fearing curses may befall;
But, on the same level they too remain,
For, there's no difference at all.

Alone he walks and crawls, the poor soul,
Hoping they would change at all;
No one to fill his brass bowl
No one to answer his call.

Only frozen hands remain,
Of that body, where the blood ran cold;
But he can no longer feel the pain
For his heart took hold.

No one bothers, no one cares,
To take the poor creature from the snow;
His body remains cold and bare
But for his heart—it's made of gold.


-[19/4/2012]