A Son's Grumble Poem by Dhiren Doley

Now, with my fragile confidence
I must say this to you
O you Father of all- the dead and living that
The communication was so poor
Or there was no communication at all
Or the gong-gong was beaten when
Our attention was buried in noisy festival prayers
That you have signed a deal
That the winter would stay for an extended month
That it would rule the streets, huts, days and nights
That it would come with teeth to crumble bones
That it would enter gypsy camps without prior negotiation
That it would enter the poor couples' bed without warrant
That it would touch human bodies without gender consideration
I just wonder how you can be so unjust
Whom the poor call their father
Whom the poor give but their heart
I'm not convinced that
You signed the deal by your conscience
You allow devastation before your judgement
You allow winter to loiter around the poor's privacy
You allow poor man's hard-earned bread frozen in cold
Now, with my breaking voice, so to say,
I must tell you
That you are responsible for
The babies becoming silent forever
The poor man's sentence for stealing straw
The young people's regret for not marrying in the autumn
The poor's denial that you exist any longer or
The claim that you exist separately for the rich
The freezing of blood and love becoming colder
You, who is the creator of all,
Know very well; hence I ne'er prayed to be a king
How everyone tends to abuse
When power is conferred to them;
You could have, in the deal
Mentioned of dire action if
The cold acts like a despot in the streets
Or torturing only fragile bones,
Who cannot fight back, selectively
Or you should, now allow
The sun, with your kind consideration
To stay longer, shine warmer
And draw a bit closer only for the winter