Out in the Cold

Poverty knows neither hunger nor cold
On this December morning, while I’m shivering I’m told
It could not be true; leastways it’s not my mean neighbour
Outside the mist has covered everything in the dullest colour
Believers dare not say they see their gods in the haze
It’s so obvious from their empty gaze
Only now I know, only now I see; it’s only in me
And an empty stomach knows not where the boundary ends
And a cold body never cares about weekdays or weekends
And all these are no different from the most useless wasteland
Civilisation has no place in this living so unplanned
It’s all written in destitution yet nothing matters
Except a plate of rice, a bowl of dish and some warm wears