Shroud Has No Pocket Poem by Vattakkatt Premchand

The shroud has no pockets, it's true indeed,
So why do we obsess over our wallet's need?
The dying man's wise words, they echo loud,
Reminding us of what truly makes us proud.

Money, oh money, the magical gene,
More enslaving than the hypnotic opium.
The more we have, the more we crave,
We set traps for our victims, so discern.

We sell our souls to quell our greed,
In this pursuit, we sow a wicked seed.
We steal others' land and fell their trees,
By drilling and digging, we grab others' loot.

Religious hatred, we instill and spread,
Divide and rule, just as our ancestors said.
We sell our gods to fill our chests,
Money, our love, makes our souls go asleep.

We curse 'lack of time 'to care for our frail parents,
Often stealing their savings with sweet hollow words.
Filling our pockets is our sole desire,
Never mind losing our loved ones,
as our hearts grow dire.

Only close to the sunset, we begin to see the light,
The truth that shines through, banishing the night.
Money isn't everything, it can't buy true bliss,
And the money once owned is in another one's keep.

The shroud has no pockets, it's plain to see,
So let's live our lives fully, wild and free.