proclaimed pretty priceless,
it comes yet, in bills—
of new attires every festival;
of mom's major medications;
of the meal with extra dessert—
that sprinkled joy at family dinner;
of the new watch to your old man;
or that school bag the Nobel gifted—
to the pauper's girl down the lane;
of the ring you held in fingers—
while going down on knees for her;
of the house you made home—
more than yourself, for the loved ones;
sure you all may eat,
from a single bread loaf;
maybe in dark too, celebrate—
with rags instead of clothes;
maybe she would've been happiest—
you matter more than the ring;
someone's entire money couldn't—
still save sick mother from dying;
but 'their" grief doesn't bundles regret—
like the one mother down the road,
with eyes and lips silent equally,
'her' child as dead as her hopes.
She knows deep down he is killed,
'cause her wallet wasn't heavy as theirs.
happy can be all, even in death,
living is to keep us all happier,
so that when you die you drown,
in a bottomless sea of contentment,
and your people can smile reminiscing you
Unlike the tears frozen on her cheeks
and the silence on 'her' lips, termed poverty.
~KSR
