Poem on Migrant Workers

For recitation of this poem- Click here 

I'm in the state of turmoil,
Midst of world crisis, economy spoilt.


Walked bare foot with slippers trite,
Escorting miles is not the only fight.


I waved my hands to highlight nothingness,
Died on the tracks, being called an act of carelessness.


Huddled in a small room with twenty other migrants,
My throat becomes dry out of  fear of the tyrant.


Am I one of the most vulnerable person on the globe,
My warm breath suffocates, mind explodes.


Is asking for existence a naive hope?
Keeping distance in this crammed place, how to cope?


Craving for basic existence like a famished dog,
Suppressed by the privileged during sun, moon & fog.

~ Harshita Solanki