When I began wondering why
I was born under thatched roof,
That wets my weak mat
In raging rainy nights.

Unknown to me mother was behind,
Jolting my grieved lips
With stifling tears jogging down
Which forced my lips with rhetorics.

Why was Blake born in bed?
And Richard raised in roses?
Why was Steven born with silver spoon?
Wasn’t I ever born with a bronze?

As I mumbled these,
She wiped the oceans off her face saying:
‘Their fate was decided
By benevolent spirit’.