The Mirage

Yes we are poor
We are poorer than what world knows
But when my father takes wine and is drunk
He becomes richer than anything else even a king
And keeps saying to all around, see I am God
And my forefathers owned acres of land nobody knows
Then starts digging front yard of our home
In anticipation of striking gold and silver supposed
To be lying underneath the ground since time immemorial
Until nothing is found and words articulated
Like ambrosia, happiness, life and this and that
All are mine
And how many days and nights
Shall I be separated from those hidden treasures?
That nobody knows and nor the world will ever know
Oh God be kind enough to make it happen
For I am digging like a miner
To unearth the wealth of nation
The way God excavates life and death
From the mines of heaven
With emotions running high and about to hit
In an agony of entreaty mingled
With something like anger
Forgetting his hungry children
And anguished wife and mother
Falling into silence time and again
For his equivocation of the truth
Of the real treasures that are found in home
Now looked beyond and into the void
As if the sun dropping down away from us
Leaving apathy, coolness and harshness ever


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