PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It is a bleak, hot, summer day in my land,

It is the land where it is said I was born,

A pall of unexplainable gloom fills the scene,

And poor children in rags appear forlorn.

I see an old woman stopping for some rest,

Tired she looks after her years of test,

Her wrinkled face and her drooping gait,

Relates all she did for her children's best.

I grew up in this dingy road and street,

As my parents toiled to make ends meet,

I worked very hard at school and at home,

Even though I walked in shoes quite torn.

During those days there was an open field here,

Where I and my friends would play and cheer,

And often under the tamarind tree we sat,

Did our homework and had some chat.

That field is now nowhere to be seen,

Flats and small villas abound the scene,

What makes me sadder is no friend is there,

Nobody with whom I can a moment spare.

And more than others I miss the girl,

Who was bright, beautiful and never dull,

Her name was Daphne and she was the best,

Of all of them, the boys, the girls -- and it is no jest.

All of a sudden my memories are stirred,

I see a policeman scolding the woman of old.

I went and asked him what wrong had she done,

He told me that she could not rest from the sun.

I looked at the old soul and helped her stand,

Was elated to offer her a helping hand,

Took her to the bus stand and made her sit,

Where there was respite from the heat that hit.

Then I saw a poor college going lass,

Groping to get inside the bus that came,

There was nobody to help her get aboard,

So I rushed forward and made her board.

The men were scowling, the young boys rude,

How could I be kind and gentle they thought,

But none of them had the courage to ask me why,

Why I help the needy and the timid and fraught.

But this is how I have always been,

To live for others is my untold dream,

Be it an old woman, be it a young lass,

I must do my bit before becoming green grass.