Many Souls Die Poem by Mehta Hasmukh Amathaal

Many souls die

We are all clay toys
Devoid of joy
With full of greed and jealousies
Spread all over universe

It is universally accepted principle
People are forced to struggle
As mighty wins the race
And weak always suffers

The powerful rules
And innocent are becoming fools
The big swallows small or little
Thus runs the world with simple principles

When burden on an earth increases
The mercy and blessings cease
As the cyclone and fire takes away countless lives
To balance the overcrowded places

The god keeps balance
The argument is advance thus
"If porter succeeds in making all pots intact"
The world shall have no place to accommodate all in fact

Sometimes own excess weights brings dawn fall
We see it as bad omen
But that is natural to offset pain
Many souls (people) die and rest remain to live in misery