My Clan Poem by Sathya Narayana

My clan, the poor, for whom I write; cant read!
The grand elite that reads, berates my words!
Well; not prepared to cede their greed and lead...
I grieve; I grieve at this unkindest world!

I dip my hand in my peoples warm blood
and hard impress my palm on those cold hearts.
They turn colder; their eyes eject bad blood;
and with deep disgust my all efforts they thwart!

I write again the same hackneyed essay
with grit unsealed, and with unfading sheen.
I know I gain nothing in this dour way;
neither laurels, nor rich dollars to preen!

No modesty indeed! I do this feat...
it's but my well opted passage to vent
proxy tears of those I represent
to whom I owe my thought and poetic feast.

Garlands and glory are mutable; die soon!
Die hard efforts do live for times umpteen
as etched murals in my social bystreets.

Today alive or years after as fossil stone
I see them greet me like Christmas joy sleet!