Are you a migrant labourer,

Escaping death by lockdown?

Then trudge, O lifelong sansculottte,

But with no hope of a town

 

That may have food or water,

Medicine or a bed

To shore up your extraneous lives

From hunger or viral dread.

 

No train or plane may hurry you

To your expectant slum;

Trains and planes are meant for NRIs

Who from fancy countries come.

 

You are Hands not needed now

When no profits circulate;

And what efficient government ever gives

Idle Hands rebate?

 

Nor is an election underway

That your vote may be of value;

So trust your sturdy bone and trudge,

Or, doing nothing will kill you.

 

 

Eat what bramble you may find

Along your odyssey;

And keep some anger yet alive

In  your unforgiving eye.

 

The memory your young will have

Of this atrocity

Will stand them in good stead

As a toughened citizenry.

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