Labourer

I just…

write poems for you,

that too, only sometimes.

I have never walked beside you,

shoulder to shoulder,

but I have seen

your struggle.

I have seen

your faded, worn-out shirt.

Your shoes are worn down,

torn in places.

Your strength may be breaking,

but not your struggle,

not your commitment,

nor your will to live.

The struggle you live--

one I have never truly lived--

let me walk with you for a while,

so I can feel it, even for a moment.

Because beside your struggle,

your quiet endurance,

this ask of mine

is almost nothing.