birth was a brutal cause to live
and life was a curse to accept
for only escaping to death.
His pale brown eyes with a zonking structure
squatted down bowing his master,
with hands crossed his narrow chest.
Was he fagged of work or a zombie.
Still bowing and an ear to his master's yelling,
begging for a little gesture in vain,
and blindly yet, for a cup of porridge.
Was this an acid test to his innocence
or a sinister fate he had to overwork.
Had ever man regretted for this?