by Amitabh Vikram
Those people over the hill,
Living a desolate life,
In their own isolation,
Residing in their small match box-type homes
Away and apart from the rest of the world.
A life, filled with misery and suffering,
Where sun governs the clock
Where darkness prevails in lives
And where there is not much difference between living and dying.
Only their moving bodies indicate their presence.
No one knows their whereabouts; they are actually living dead.
They are not considered humans.
But as every dog has its day,
Today is election; and they are also remembered.
Who cares whether they know –
The name of their country, leaders, and ideologies?
Because what matters is their votes, and not their heads.