A Nation’s Burden
The weight of the sun rests heavy,
on shoulders bent with toil and sweat.
From fields to factories, streets to seas,
we rise each day, though dreams forget.
A tax upon the spirit now,
an unseen hand that scrapes the bread.
What once was ours, hard-earned, well-kept,
is clipped before it meets the head.
They say it builds the nation’s spine,
that roads and bridges rise from gold.
But we, the bricks, the sweat, the bone,
grow tired of being bought and sold.
From the smallest shop to grand bazaars,
the burden cuts through every trade.
A simple man with empty jars
seeks refuge in the debt he’s made.
Promises pour like summer rain,
but where’s the shade in the sweltering sun?
We pay the price, yet ask in vain:
When will this weary race be won?
Still, in our hearts, a quiet flame,
flickers beneath the weight of strife.
For though the levy thickens chains,
we’ll barter hope for a better life.
By: Chinmay Khare
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