A Skill Poem by Hans Raj Sharma

‘I hate not the word rich'
So says poverty-
‘But, I hate to be the one
Only one, I see always dead
Dead towards all its senses-
Senses, feels and emotions.'

Truth be told, though not worth the dare-
Clouds in the sky bring a welcome-change
A role that could have been played better
Not forgetting its funky stroke and touch.

A strong silence beyond the clouds-
Calm and cool absolutely disturbed souls
Claiming maturity as an artist at this age-
Rarest traits never happen, at such a stage.

A lot of transparency due to the poverty
Since nothing is there, so to hide or show
Gossips World Human Rights Organisation
Man is set down dead in open spacious fields.

Biased governance and laws of the lands
Asserting no mercy for monster richness
Mistaken, for humanity and living beings
Due to the cultural bias so grave so rigid.
To have true poverty-experience
Is to have nil of anything, less than nil
There is nothing either to lose or to regain
The notion ruins faster than the thought itself.

Thanks for the nerves of steel, the teenagers
Out of slums, eve-ready to face all challenges
Challenges of original life and death-
So caused by disparity and scarcity of sources
At rest, poverty is retaining the god-gifted skill.

After their transition into adulthood
And so on, till the last of their breath
Snags and constrains not casting murk
Combating all old-age symptoms is a skill.
-Copyright © hrsharma ®2018
Ludhiana, Punjab, India