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A Migrant's Ramblings
A Migrant's Ramblings
This poem talks in brief terms the rambling thoughts of a migrant worker( illiterate and poor,) given shelter in some community centre to spend his days during the period of lockdown necessitated by the spread of Corona Virus in most parts of the world. He is capable of only manual labour and totally unsophisticated. He yearns to be back where he was born, but he is held back by circumstances over which no one seems to have any control. Although he talks mainly of himself , he is concerned about
This poem is the result of having read the reportage in various dailies about the hardships suffered by the migrant workers and what they have spoken in public.
Note: Thoughts are Migrant's, the language is mine.
A Migrant's Ramblings
Thousands of miles separate me
From my home where I want to be,
O, How I crave to be home
Where once I did freely roam!
I am now confined to a small room
To keep me and others from a doom
That waits on the wings in the open
To devour children, men and women.
But in the confined space we are in
Abide a crowd of strangers and kin,
I don't know how safe we are,
Death may not be very far.
Many days and nights are gone,
There's no change from dawn to dawn,
Without waits the accursed virus,
The daily news doesn't inspire us.
I heard someone talking of a rope
Since he says he has lost every hope
Of ever reaching home alive:
To disbelieve, I am not naive.
The aged whine, the children cry,
Everyone believes he'll soon die,
Either done to death by the disease
Or when food supply will cease.
In the darkness of night I often dream
And try to smother the escaping scream;
Is it a curse for my past sins
That I should die among aliens?
Will I see my wife and my child?
I'm often being beguiled
By delusions of a providential escape
From this ghastly, dreadful landscape.
There are too many to share the too little,
Where none is likely to be in fine fettle,
Weaker and weaker we have become,
Many say death they would welcome.
Strange odours hang in the air,
Unwashed kids with matted hair
Crawl about the room with vacant eyes,
They're alive yet is a great surprise.
When I leave, yes, if and when
This claustrophobic frightening den,
Will I have a better future
To live the life of a decent creature?
To my home should I go
To graze the cattle or sow
In the fields for a crop
Or to a city to sweep and mop?
Such vague doubts assail me;
I'm unable to clearly see
What in earnest I should do,
Oh! Lord, bless me with a clue.
Raghav R
11.07.2020
© Raghav R
This poem talks in brief terms the rambling thoughts of a migrant worker( illiterate and poor,) given shelter in some community centre to spend his days during the period of lockdown necessitated by the spread of Corona Virus in most parts of the world. He is capable of only manual labour and totally unsophisticated. He yearns to be back where he was born, but he is held back by circumstances over which no one seems to have any control. Although he talks mainly of himself , he is concerned about
This poem is the result of having read the reportage in various dailies about the hardships suffered by the migrant workers and what they have spoken in public.
Note: Thoughts are Migrant's, the language is mine.
A Migrant's Ramblings
Thousands of miles separate me
From my home where I want to be,
O, How I crave to be home
Where once I did freely roam!
I am now confined to a small room
To keep me and others from a doom
That waits on the wings in the open
To devour children, men and women.
But in the confined space we are in
Abide a crowd of strangers and kin,
I don't know how safe we are,
Death may not be very far.
Many days and nights are gone,
There's no change from dawn to dawn,
Without waits the accursed virus,
The daily news doesn't inspire us.
I heard someone talking of a rope
Since he says he has lost every hope
Of ever reaching home alive:
To disbelieve, I am not naive.
The aged whine, the children cry,
Everyone believes he'll soon die,
Either done to death by the disease
Or when food supply will cease.
In the darkness of night I often dream
And try to smother the escaping scream;
Is it a curse for my past sins
That I should die among aliens?
Will I see my wife and my child?
I'm often being beguiled
By delusions of a providential escape
From this ghastly, dreadful landscape.
There are too many to share the too little,
Where none is likely to be in fine fettle,
Weaker and weaker we have become,
Many say death they would welcome.
Strange odours hang in the air,
Unwashed kids with matted hair
Crawl about the room with vacant eyes,
They're alive yet is a great surprise.
When I leave, yes, if and when
This claustrophobic frightening den,
Will I have a better future
To live the life of a decent creature?
To my home should I go
To graze the cattle or sow
In the fields for a crop
Or to a city to sweep and mop?
Such vague doubts assail me;
I'm unable to clearly see
What in earnest I should do,
Oh! Lord, bless me with a clue.
Raghav R
11.07.2020
© Raghav R
