Wealth is a very subjective term. Are the people we think to be rich, really that rich? What is the definition of being rich anyway? Is it something that can be measured only in monetary terms? A lot of questions there, and I am probably getting too philosophical about this. Anyway, quite a few posts which I saw in the recent past prompted me to think along these lines. This quote in particular. I am not able to dig out those other posts now (I know, my bad). If you find something relevant, I would love to know. Here is a poem which is the end result of my thoughts. Critiques are welcome 🙂
The fall came in, and the winds rushed in,
the foliage rustled – tussled and torn by the lusty gust.
The old man he, dressed in rags-
raked the leaves, and purged the turf.
Chilled to the bone, with clothes all torn,
he swept the soil, his body wept in his toil.
All for the ten pence, to pay for his hunger so intense-
he cleansed the ground, never his own self.
A honk in the distance, a glimmer of a limo-
harbinger of a soul – plush and pompous.
Greed in his eyes, and a smirk on his lips-
a breed so fed, his neck was a myth.
Riding his pride, he rolled down the glass
a scowl on his face, he spat on the grass-
a goo of vermilion, from the innards of a vermin.
The ground- it was stained, by someone so tainted.
A moment of silence, an exchange of gazes-
one full of contempt, the other, nonchalance.
A sliver of silver he tossed, it tumbled to the old man’s feet-
“Take that tip, and clean that stain”
The grey wise eyes, their shine not lost-
what did they hold? Apathy or sympathy?
“I need no tip, I’m paid for my work-
keep your silver, and cleanse your soul”.
Wonder one must- who was rich and who poor;
Ponder one must, how to measure one’s treasure.
Old man he, dressed in rags, poor by money, rich by heart-
while the gaudy bloke, rich by money, and money alone.