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Rickshaw and the Puller
Rickshaw though born in Japan,
The land of the rising sun,
Reaches many nations,
Aiming to extend beauty and offer, for the poor, options.
The rickshaw of three wheels,
The puller pensively feels,
Has been a blessing,
Ever since his own wheel of fortune is in confused swing.
It’s his Mercedes, helping him earn the bread,
Even its least trouble makes him utterly mad,
Some days prove to be Greek mythical cornucopia,
Others give birth to misery inside the messy dystopia.
Pulling the much-loved rickshaw is what he is destined to do,
Whether soaked in rain or prevented by the sunlight, the wheels must go,
Lunch time for him bears hardly any meaning at times,
The children’s faces let him forget all the sadness and pain while he climbs.
The rickshaw is his existence, the true friend ever,
As if Helios’ ‘chariot of the sun’ has transformed its nature,
Regardless of slight sporadic healing, ever ready to rock,
The puller doesn’t give a damn if the drivers of motor vehicles try to mock.
