The music I hear
causes a tear
the heart cries
the soul stirs
the eyes of the poor
though not speak words
express feelings of hurt
their suffering mostly silent
sings many a song
of struggle and scarcity
their hands bear
scars of toil red and black
their feet have blisters
the nails all broke
niggard they are
hear them rant
ignites a fire
that rises up
darkens the cloud
pours down as rain
a feeble way
to assuage their bruise
smothers now and then
keeps them in the 
flow.
Meenas Poems 