Drudge Poem by Hanan Muzafar

His face was full of scars, lean,
torn out, and dressed in rags;
For some months worked,
In my house for construction,
also used to work in mosque for maintenance.

Often used to ask me for cigarettes,
I couldn't give him much,
What else I have,
except tea, and some of my used clothes,
to cover his nakedness,
When I myself is stark naked.

Time passed, he left,
Perhaps wages were too little,
After sometime heard, he's doing farming;
Many people in my town,
like any other town and cities, are workmen;
Where from they come,
What they do, and where do they go,
is quite strange, in its own way?

Crushed by people,
but he used to remain, happy and active,
I don't know why?
Perhaps, he was grateful of what he had:
Maybe life.