No Medicine, Cloths Poem by Mehta Hasmukh Amathaal

The world shall remain
As it was to cause pain
Make human to suffer more
And push them to feel sore

We, the poets, are reporting
And unequivocally equating
Good with bad and nice country with curse
This is turning out to be sad with remorse

Somewhere big nations are in support
Only because local businessmen resort
To come openly in favor and provide finance
It dims chance for future peace

We are counting deaths
Not for people taking breathe
They are living in hellish atmosphere
With risk to life and constant fear

People suffer
As comes no right kind of offer
No medicines, no cloths
But only suffering and deaths