Migrant Workers

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.

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Originally published at https://www.harshitasolanki.com on May 28, 2020.