The profession of sales.
But of course a noble one.
The toil that translates,
Revenue into profits.
The face of you,
To your god,
The one who shells,
Dollars hard earned.
At times I feel low.
As if hit below,
The belt,
In agony I cry,
Why me?
Once the pain subsides,
I am thankful,
I respond,
It would only be me,
Me the me in your times,
The typhoon,
Who shall not accept,
Defeat,
That is why Me.
Hardik Mahesh Vaidya.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem