The swathe of his trunk and limbs are:
Long, slim cylinders to the wrists,
Baggy prongs to the ankles
And a woolen barrel to the waist
Are adorned diffidently at best
Always with millions of creases
I don't want to get dismayed
Judge not by these, I say
The scorching sun's her roof
Her tenacity's weatherproof
Famished and haggard in rags
'Tomatoes, tomatoes, ' she shouts
The wages of her toil, measly
How she gets through is a mystery
Judge not by these, I say
For she boasts a healthy womb
From which a king comes forth
Judge not by the eyes I say
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hard times can befall anybody. Judging someone based on their poverty stricken appearance is injustice. The poor don't choose to be so, it's a result of environment. And as you say, they can always climb back up the ladder. Especially when shown compassion. Great write
Thanks Mike.