That man who trudges down the asphalt lines, sifting the sundry remains of the day
Like a bottled-up shadow in a stunted world, from the townsfolk why he shies away

That man who lays a million blocks to tend the edifices of posterity to new statures
Is himself wedged in a cramped gap with no substance, just repulsive caricatures

That man who stands at passageways pulling flaps for uncaring passers-by
Is he unsettled by the notion that he is a “nobody” as their snobby looks decry?

That man who scours the privies and lives a dismal life in grime
Distanced from masses, spurned by himself, a soul shrouded in odious slime

That man who crafts the sparkle of life with his sweat immersed in soil
Failed by regimes and destiny, forgotten for all the hallowed toil

That man who pushes the papers and gets the dealings done
“Why he merits a notice, he is expendable and no one”

Is he a lesser child of God, or anonymous shadow in dark?
Why don’t we face this faceless man and spare for him a heartening remark

Is he a woeful disconnected fella, just a means to achieving ends?
Why don’t we see him in the eyes and help to make his mends.

Is he an inapt cypher, cynical to his existence beside a hopelessly infinite scale of time?
Why don’t we hold his hands and tell he is one of us and his part just as sublime

Is he an utterly broken bloke who lost the race to build a rank very long ago?
Why don’t we clasp him to our heart and cheer him for there are many more miles to go.

© 2015 Vikas Chandra