MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

The Prison

I was beaten with a stick,
Long, thin and wet,
For doing nothing ill.
As the coach-man does,
When his horse draws
But obeys not.

The boys rich and mischievous,
Flattered the builders,
Made them please,
Oblivious to the wall between,
Made friends with them.

While the others, rough and poor,
Amid the high walls of prison,
With the pebbles, hard and round,
Under the banyan tree played,
With dust on their heads.

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