Nativity

Some are born by paupers Their struggle starts at infancy; With dried-up bottoms And washed-out concertina ribs, Yet their rust-colored teeth find solace On their mother’s shriveled breasts. Others are born with silver spoon, I mean the fat-bellied children of fate; Yet still suck their podgy fingers, And one-nippled bottle Instead of their mother’s juicy breasts. For those whose story Has been written with PEN In the pages of colorful memoirs Life is a bed of roses Dressed in ornate regalia. For those whose story Has been written with PAIN Each scar on their body Is a lesson taught by life To bring them into limelight. Nevertheless, in both cases Nativity is an unarguable scenario, The beginning is already written How the story ends is up to you.