A Poor Boy He Went To Nagaland For Road Construction, But Returned He Not Back To

At that time the mobile handset phone facility too
Had not been it
Not even the land lines were available in each of the houses,
The poor, black boy went he to Nagaland from Bihar
In the company of the labourers, wage earners
To the distant exotic and indigenous northeast
Away to the Himalayan fringes,
But came he not back to
As meningitis struck him
And he died of the disease in a Nagaland hospital
Just the telegram came it
With the message,
Sorry, for the death
And the parents too could not move to
Extreme far off Nagaland from,
The external labour contractor too could not be
Contacted for.

Friday, June 26, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: art
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Douglas Scotney 26 June 2020

good to read about pre-it times, Bijay

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Bijay Kant Dubey 26 June 2020

A poor, black small boy aged 16 or 17 he went to Nagaland in search of better opportunities or for good fortune just as a migrant labourer for the road work, but he did not come back again, just the telegram came with the death news and the condolence message from a distant Naglaand hospital, some 1200kms, away from his native place.

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