Vanilla Seeds.

What else shall we have, in the selfish community? That always behaves, as if the poor not exist. They need us to move their machines, Toil in their fields and hit their key boards. Once their Mansions and palaces, Malls and halls are built and finished, We become the strangers, not to be recognized, Though our sweat hidden under each slab. Hundreds of washrooms, in the Buckingham palace, royals and powerful to use. we have the shed, that is called as lavatory, hundred yards away. What can be done, without the subjects? We are the vanilla seeds, thrown out after the use. The fear of future at heart is a real torture, The doubt of tomorrow at thought is a real agony.