Saturday, June 30, 2007

The weeds

- Roto Chobin

They look so fat. so flabby.

But so familiar and so abundant.

They move in a motor vehicle

To carry their baggage.

And when they walk;

Sycophants admire them, drool over.

This makes them

To pat their pot-belly like a Pandora’s box.

Who are they? What are they?

a clerk. a bureaucrat. a politician.

With food and money their body inflates

Their spirits infect. They corrupt.

Shall we open up their stomach?

To see if it is a fat. Or paper.

As if it is not enough

We are made to stand and wait

Sir, I request you….

Madam, will you please…

Are we a watchman? a beggar. a leper.

Are they an angel? an almighty god.

Do they think when they will die

They will be buried under a gold-dust,

Do they think when we will die

We alone will be thrown to earthworm.

The grease in the brain slowed their mind

They forgot that we all are but a posse

Traveling on a same road.

Heading for same end. On our way to our funeral.

They with their baggage – filled with fat and paper.

We with our empty belly, and tormented mind.


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