The stones paved into the sidewalk, lined and lined,
Catch the light from the streetlamp’s glow for one night’s bind.
A little away from the lamp’s dwindling shade,
A fire spits, below a family’s meager day’s meal.
A transient establishment, their little tent,
Hooked to the wall of the cemetery, a pleasant fact –
Dead ghosts inside, living ghosts outside,
Does it even matter to anyone? That they are alive?
A day of struggle has just gone by, nothing quenched yet,
Their life long battle for the water and grain,
Boiling in their feeble hearth tonight, still looms ahead.
Forsaken souls, they are, whose lands were snatched away,
At the merciful almighty, God’s wrath.
No soul sympathizes, no heart melts upon their plight,
Those living ghosts, living near the cemetery!
No soul worries ov’er for once, raising no concern, should they vanish
No tent hanging by the cemetery wall, of course.
No fire, no smoke spitting into the spectre sky,
No one would think once wherever did they go, just relieved,
Nothing to mar the beautiful site for the cemetery,
Just feel glad for the dead ghosts, dead, for all of eternity.
Poor, wretched vagabonds, they were – they’re meant for this life!


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