The Downtrodden

Another man has passed away, Another soul has passed away without casting a silhouette. Another son is growing into another man, Who will one day pass away like all those before him. To the deceased man, living had just been a burden, He is now called 'downtrodden'. But those who call him so Have never been thus tagged in their glorious lives. To the deceased man, life was a chain of systems, Where the chain could neither be loosened nor broken. To others, only his body mattered and when he tried to speak out, It was nobody's concern in this tremendous town. To the deceased man's family, death is nothing but a mere turmoil. They have more crucial jobs to do, They must run the machines and feed the system. Smoke in the lungs can never be a headache for the downtrodden. If the man were just another machine, That machine might not be washed with pure, scented water. But it would be both calm and content, Never to be called 'downtrodden'.