The worker and the Corona city

My clothes may be soiled,  face unkempt,

With a pair of rough hands and a set of bruised heels,

I shoulder the burden, I power the growth,

I take pride that I am the maker of the world

I am the worker

Who fights daily for bread,

I know no rest I know no riches’ chest,

But to toil in the Sun and earn the night’s bread.

But not every night I am a victor,

I deceive, win it, sometimes I succumb,

But never have I given up nor got disheartened.

I Stand my ground, fight my war of hunger and despair. 

But now I don’t understand,

Why everything has shut its door on me

My toiling, my services have not been honoured,

Left stranded, I feel disturbed and unsafe.

Let me go back to my near and dear ones,

Let me fall back on my trusted brethren

My village still provides for everyone,

Not like cities, where one feels alienated from everyone.

My life and wellbeing never considered worth it's due.   

Now, with everything shut, no means to earn my bread,

I hope to be shown a little respect,

As a fellow human, I want my share of breath,

The Right to a dignified life,

to at least be heard when you decide my fate.

I see my voice lost in the cacophony of learned sounds,

I wonder if they can imagine what a hungry belly sounds.

I mean no harm to anyone just let me be by myself,

Just give me my Right to life, just be a little considerate.

I too am a fellow human though little unkempt,

I too earn my bread toiling dawn to sunset,

Show me some respect, be a little considerate.   ©