# Now tell me my Gain
He brought alms;
My earthen pot had a Venus’s image.
My grandmother to the stone mill of hand
Poured much and as much poured to her hens.
I, for my self pity, hung a rope on my door.
They would come for alms, and now they return.
My upper hand has become my lower hand.
Now tell me my gain.
Comments about this poem (# Now tell me my Gain by Sadiqullah Khan )
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