The Helpless

There is a tag tied to my wrist,

It reads written in blue Rs. 1/= only,

The lowest possible price,

The selling price.

I sell very cheaply in the market

But no one has so far paid that rupee to buy me.

I am laughed at by those who read my poems

And my other books.

‘See, how low you have sunk.’

Thus I am jeered

By the crowd of know-alls and the do-alls,

They are all wise men

For which reason, they do not carry price tags,

They do not write poems,

They do not publish any book.