Saturday, November 15, 2008

The Rickshaw Puller

This was originally written on 09/29/2005
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The wheel keeps turning on and on
Cranked by two skinny legs;
Like the arms of an antique clock
Wound by the hands of Fate.

The wheel keeps turning on and on 
Through narrow meandering lanes;
Revealing myriad creatures around 
Each with a tale to tell.

The wheel keeps turning on and on 
As it passes a sooty face 
That looks up from his blacksmith's hearth 
Like a soul purging in hell; 
The splinters fly everywhere 
Like angry fire-flies 
The anvil stays stoic to pain 
As the angry hammer strikes. 

The wheel keeps turning on and on 
Crossing a baroque palace gate, 
Where noblemen and women conflate,
Where vanity surrounds the place;
Their smiles hide a million vice 
Enshrouding putrid thoughts
Yet, they are society's noble face 
They are the respected lot.

The wheel is tired , its path is tough 
The road it travels , is abrasive and rough; 
The cog squeals , and the spokes creak, 
But the skinny legs pay no heed.

Lean, lanky, emaciated yet stolid,
With a gaunt yet poker face; 
His skinny legs peddle on and on 
By will, and not by brawn.

The sun sets to accept defeat
To this spartan soul 
And the night arrives in her capote 
Only to a dawn unfold

Life is a wheel to this noble soul 
And peddle he must to live 
His sorrows weigh heavy on the divine scale 
But peddle he must to live .

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