The Mirage

Yes we are poor We are poorer than what world knows But when my father takes wine and is drunk He becomes richer than anything else even a king And keeps saying to all around, see I am God And my forefathers owned acres of land nobody knows Then starts digging front yard of our home In anticipation of striking gold and silver supposed To be lying underneath the ground since time immemorial Until nothing is found and words articulated Like ambrosia, happiness, life and this and that All are mine And how many days and nights Shall I be separated from those hidden treasures? That nobody knows and nor the world will ever know Oh God be kind enough to make it happen For I am digging like a miner To unearth the wealth of nation The way God excavates life and death From the mines of heaven With emotions running high and about to hit In an agony of entreaty mingled With something like anger Forgetting his hungry children And anguished wife and mother Falling into silence time and again For his equivocation of the truth Of the real treasures that are found in home Now looked beyond and into the void As if the sun dropping down away from us Leaving apathy, coolness and harshness ever