A question I often ponder about,
It has been bothering me today.
Why some have solid earth beneath them,
While many others fall, die with their homes faraway.
This plague does not discriminate, I’m sure,
But we exhibit differing symptoms in the nation.
Some stay safely in their home, stocking up meat and rice.
Outside shutters are down, people robbed of their vocation.
This plague is a test on us all for sure,
But the real enemy has always been out there,
Visible among the people sitting at home,
And those walking miles with feet and stomachs bare.
After a hundred miles, someone collapsed from heat and hunger.
The mafia called a doctor, asked what’s wrong with that cropper.
The doctor looked the man, didn’t even reach for his pad,
He had seen this many time before, “Oh that’s nothing, he’s a pauper.”
Someday, I shall sit with the comfort of my shoes,
surrounded by my peers, able to take part in some discourse,
I rail against it in the papers, they keep walking on the tracks,
Barefoot, hungry, objects, some don’t even cry themselves hoarse.