THE REBEL'S CALL
This is a call to all the commoners
to gather around truly as one.
A few fiery lines for the silent doers,
who below wheels should already have won.
You who toiled and slaved in the sun
drenched the earth with blood and sweat,
take your rights now; halt your run
putting a stop to centuries of wait.
Push aside your yoke and stand
and hold the hand that has the whip.
Look eye to eye, join as a band,
be a rebel—that is for you to keep.
Your drooping shoulders speak of shame,
you never had the sun on your face.
How could you live with no name?
Strengthen your spine; be up in grace.
If not taken what was always yours
all will be lost like rain on the sea.
Do not let them close the doors,
as they fear unity between you and me.
All along you have been on your knees.
Get up now; make your stride.
Stop! Stop doing as they please,
Look up and regain your pride.
THE POOR MAN'S BALLAD
Who would be a poor man's friend?
Someone he could share views with?
The class where perils have no end,
'All men are equal' - is just a myth.
How does the poor man want to evade,
his already darkening dark being?
The perils threaten like a razor blade,
the bondage of centuries is just not fleeing.
How would the poor ever see a rainbow?
The ones who knew only shades of grey?
'All poor people are equal' - if they must know,
on whom the sober elite suck and prey.
POEM 3 OF 5
WHAT IF?
Will the world ever be the same?
The dove and the eagle in the same branch?
Stopping those bullets in a war game,
the bloody battlefield into a green ranch.
Will the leaders ever know, that
Is sobbing and wailing the same all over?
It has to be reaped what they sow,
there is no place to run for cover.
The spoils of war, the widows' cries
spurts agony even in the vulture's eyes.
Some committed to fire, others to earth,
cut short- a life promised at birth.
Can we really still not even hear,
how does the dead speak from the grave?
The silent story behind every tear,
of how the living dishonoured the brave.
Will the tables ever turn,
for an even playing field?
No ashes, nothing to burn, all
efforts put just to live and build.
POEM 4 OF 5
CHILD LABOUR
She draws a pail of water,
her golden locks shine in the sun.
No time for her kiddish loiter,
unlike others, she has none.
She does the chores daily,
while gets the usual scorn.
Though it is undeserving really,
as she works from night to morn.
She wipes and sweeps the floor,
with her innocent tender hands.
Bonded to work door to door,
as is the fate of miserable bands.
She neither laments nor wails,
as she does not play her pranks.
Till today fetches water in pails,
and remains neglected in all ranks.
IN HIS FOOTSTEPS
I have seen him since a kid,
sold fruits for mouths to feed.
He was then a young lad,
and ran the show like his dad.
His dad had a nagging cough,
the doctors dealt but it was tough.
He took to bed slowly one day,
the ground he stood on swept away.
Words of doctors he abided by,
pain in chest but spirits held high.
Doctors came now lesser to him,
as every passing day was grim.
With wet cheeks his wife sobbed,
as his future was slowly robbed.
Wrinkles still on the forehead show,
that his end was near, he didn't know.
He wanted to live for family's sake,
but one day slept never to wake.
He is now, no more a young lad,
but a trader better than his dad.
PRASENJIT DAS
C/O - "NIKUNJA CHHAYA"
28/1 NETAJI PALLY MAIN ROAD
P.O. RABINDRA SARANI
CITY & P.S. : SILIGURI
PINCODE - 734006
DIST - DARJEELING
WEST BENGAL
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