Crippling wobbly doors,

That the slum adores.

Ready-to-fell walls

I wonder how they all,

Live with ease in that trash,

Or what they call ‘home’.

Never complaining,

They have made up with life.

It’s hardships theirs,

Without money and heirs.

The sewage runs on the road,

Home to all the germs.

The disease their companion,

And deaths occur like illusion.

Some die while others survive,

As they have made up with life.

They eat food in days,

I wonder how they breathe,

With that smiling face!

They don’t read books,

But sell them as waste.

They don’t know the alphabet,

But the numbers on currency.

And,

They cherish old clothes and shoes,

With heart warming fancy.

They work till wee hours,

Never earn enough!

The rich spend millions,

With a plastic laugh.

They don’t want millions,

But food and the way,

That opens doors of hope

And the fate.

Sometimes I wonder,

Sometimes I hate!

But then I realize,

At least,

Slum life is not a bait.

They don’t cry in difficulties.

They know how to deal

For the life has made them strong,

Through the hardships that frown,

The rich and the middle,

Only poor survive with life’s treasure.

I want to apologize to all my friends. I am sorry that I could not go through all of yours articles in past 1 week. Actually I had exams in school and that left me with very little time to read articles..I am sorry. Hope all of you forgive me…(And one more thing..the word ‘Bait’ that I have used in the poem means that the world is like a rattrap and the Bait’ is the luxuries..one who gets caught in luxuries never gets out..)