The cradle, must cost, more than urn
Sweet sacrament, of, nativity
What all, we pay, for a price, to earn
In the, rat-race, for identity!

Still spills, thru me, my father’s sweat
With which, he farmed, our hearts, and hearth
And those, unsung woes, dare I forget
Since I, live him still, in this rebirth!

How I, meet myself, when the ends, don’t meet
Amidst social shame, and a soul, full of pain
I stray on, stony street, with a, lost heartbeat
If money, ain’t a bane, ain’t life, a rite profane!

Beyond job and bread, is that, ethnic cost
We pay, with defiant, acceptance
In the, heart’s conquests, soul’s Utopia lost
In The, Economics Of, Existence!

© 2020 Vikas Chandra