Unemployed Refugees Poem by Cyclopseven R

The sun has gone into oblivion.
cicadas begin to whisper.
the sweat on the forehead has not dried yet.
the amber shines bright
slowly heating the pot on the stove.
a pot filled with white rice.
side dish is only bamboo shoots.

stomach is speaking a rhythm of hunger.
a glass of plain water burdens the antic table.
the tender stomachs of young souls too begin to share the pain
the reason they know not, their fate they question not.
a kerosene lamp burning dimly
attaching further darkness to already gloomy life.
empty pots well arranged, covers the earthen floor.
a signature of impending famine.

in the dim light, amber walks high
a sign of relieve to satisfy an addiction
smoke rolls high up, penetrating the turbulent desires.
the butt is but a special smoke filter
when the end comes into dustbin it goes.
but the man who send the smoke high
where will his end be?
sleep is but eyes shut
with a widening mind.
leaving the ties of birth
and the town where childhood played hide and seek
a travel the man took with heavy heart
in search for a job in faraway land
with only a piece or two to wear
to lead a life a day in life
unemployed refugees many become
promising nothing but hunger or worst famine.

will forever the jobless refugee remain jobless?
will his faith be answered, soon?

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