- 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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