The Roads, Not To Be Resurfaced! Poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi

Everything turns into ashes, except a few,
The prestigious dining table that serves,
Fragrant food, drinks, fruits and nuts,
The clowns of this world gather and gulp,
Pot after pot every few hours and in gap,
Once the thanks giving prayer is repeated,
Nutrients are absorbed, the remnants of waste,
Can't be kept in the safe deposit, turn into compost.

When the fuel is filled in the tanks,
And the work is extracted in ranks,
What is left is the waste of aging bodies,
That has to be greased and repaired,
Untold sufferings of maintenance,
Even the crowns of these clowns,
Are in despair and teary eyed,
Have no one to rescue and give them,
Youthful elixir: to stay to give pleasure.

When the man start to think in troubles,
Not in leisure and in pampering comfort,
When their legs are shot with worldly tart,
The pulverization of ideas minced with words,
Many extend the pleasure as the food that perish,
In a day or stored in the barns for few years,
Only those who have scribbled deeply in the hearts,
Inherited for many generations as a few great,
Representatives of every century, the rest gone ashes,
These cannibals never face the death,
And live in the minds of mortal to inspire,
Generations of intoxicant of knowledge and power.