In a boi-mela, one book enthusiast meets another
Poverty writ large on his face
The man lives in a faraway remote village
He goes to all the village-melas, all through the year
There he recites what he writes
A jewel in the dust this man was not
But had the beauty of conviction
And plenty of dreams
Not once during his recitations
Wavered the self-belief of this man
Nor did he ever sell his poverty and asked for sympathy
Despite the odds, this man loved being a poet
A true poet this man was.