I live in a nation where the cow is worshipped,
and there is no king regnant,
but it’s funny, how the cow feast on crap,
and the farmer becomes a peasant.

I live in a nation of aye men,
who say aye to a baloney,
of media which protects the cow,
but let the peasant starve slowly.

I watch daily, the television debates,
where logic is razored by bigotry,
and no talks about the peasant,
gagged into silence by the authority.

I witness a bathtub getting sensationalized
when a mid-aged celebrity died,
the debt he’d laden of the dried crop,
no rain never did the sky cry.

He later worked as an indentured laborer,
for a landlord who drinks the cow’s ****,
as a saffroned monk says it’s healthy,
way to the eternal bliss.

A student who sloganed for freedom
from the maw of poverty.
My media says he is a traitor,
and so is the entire university.

At least, let’s agree to disagree,
that is essential to a republic,
let freedom of speech not be seldom,
and never shall it cease to exist.

The peasant must die soon,
and no more shall he crouch in dread,
may someday he incarnate as a cow,
roams free on the city streets, and feast on free bread.

Today, I met the son of a rag picker.

working at a landfill talks about a Biogas tomb,
but does not know that he sits on a methane bomb.

Talks about the suffering of animals, while he suffers from toxins,
redeems every moment of his life for indefinite sins.

Shoves through the rotten corpses and befriends the scavengers,
he wears a stained Spencer and soiled wayfarers.

His eyes are jaundiced, given the stench,
climbs the dirt, while his body starves but his hands are hench.

He looks curiously at my white glowing skin,
laughs at my soft palms throbbing on a dustbin.

He burns the crap, and high goes the flame,
snuffs out his little life, with this every day precarious game.

He bathes in sewer and eats near the crap,
he talks of the other day when he fell off the fill and his leg got snapped.

He is sliced at places and stabbed for stealing ***,
he earns his bread while others of his age mug a shot.

Authorities for his welfare complain about the aroma,
he worships this place as his life’s dogma.

Someday I wish may he smell the green grass,
wear a uniform and attend the chemistry class.

Prejudice he may, for the upcoming generations,
who spend a summer day carrying out these gnarly operations.

May fair go his skin and clean run his blood,
he is the saving grace, my new stench bud.