Weathered Lines of Living
Etched deep within His Face
Tell the Life Long Story
Of working in the Sun, Wind and Rain
His piercing eyes look up at Me
At the windows of My Soul
Asking Me the question-
"Are they open or are they closed?"
His searching eyes Stare up at Me
Speaking with Despair-
Asking, "What are You looking at?"
And, "Do You really care?"
He sits on His haunches, of malnourished limbs
Tautly covered with leathered skin
Silently waiting for His service to begin
His Family fed by honest toil
His Soul richly Blessed
He earned His Rickshaw running through the streets
A well-earned prize for His caste
He lives to serve, and serves to eat
The telltale sign of His calloused feet
He sits and waits for His next rupee to come along
He sees the affluent passing Him by
And knows where He belongs
Within His Soul a Bhajan begins
Reminding Him of His worth
He chants as He runs with joy in His Heart
With deep devotion and mirth
Each day He returns to the streets-
To wait and serve
He is Living the caste of His Birth
