I walked on by a troubled man,
With my grocery cart, so full,
He knew that I could see his hand,
In it, the apple that he stole.
He stopped, mid-chomp, and looked at me,
Inside his gaze, were the scales
Tipping towards me unfairly and rapidly,
And stagnantly
He turned his frail figure toward me,
As his body shivered in the cold,
And so much his piercing glare told me;
That I am guilty of my food and home,
Standing strangely in my khaki throne,
Standing stupidly with no way to know,
Why he looked so alone...
And at this point, I hope Hinduism's true,
Because if this man didn't earn this caste,
What little can we do?
With my grocery cart, so full,
He knew that I could see his hand,
In it, the apple that he stole.
He stopped, mid-chomp, and looked at me,
Inside his gaze, were the scales
Tipping towards me unfairly and rapidly,
And stagnantly
He turned his frail figure toward me,
As his body shivered in the cold,
And so much his piercing glare told me;
That I am guilty of my food and home,
Standing strangely in my khaki throne,
Standing stupidly with no way to know,
Why he looked so alone...
And at this point, I hope Hinduism's true,
Because if this man didn't earn this caste,
What little can we do?