Fragrances of being poor
IP: 120.62.37.95


Sweat, mud and black tea.

Floor sparkled with dung,

A roof of dead, dry hay,

Fighting the rain and sun.

Stale food of two days ago,

Freshened by hunger and fire.

Sweat, it smells so sweet with

Little money in every drop.

The heady breath of cough,

Blowing whistles in the lungs

Will soon cease, will be no more.

Who, then will breathe in these

Fragrances of being poor?

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