THE
STRUGGLE
K. SELVARAJ
For being flowered
In this rapt rat hole
Days limp,
Weary months wear on,
And withered seasons wound up
As wretched red sun constant here.
Day in and day out
We rot and rust out;
Worn out wrinkles jot down
Their said tales frightful,
And make us poor scarecrows.
Still crores here madly struggle
To drag the heavy laden juggernaut.
Why don’t we cease to tussle
With Time, the jubilant juggler?
Or dare to jugulate the callous oppressors?
Lest, what the hell are we traveling tediously for?