Baskadia

In a world of riches, where gold's embrace,

A tale unfolds of a different grace.

A humble soul, with dreams unfurled,

A son of toil, a gem, the poor man of the world.

In tattered clothes, his spirit unbowed,

Through life's harsh storms, he has plowed.

With calloused hands and weary eyes,

He seeks solace under vast, open skies.

No silver spoon, no fortunes vast,

Yet resilience within, steadfast.

His heart, a treasury of dreams untold,

In the symphony of struggle, a story unfolds.

With every sunrise, a new day's quest,

In the dance of survival, he's truly blessed.

His laughter, a melody of joy sincere,

Echoes through the hardship, crystal clear.

In the shadows, where opulence gleams,

The poor man weaves resilient dreams.

Through the tapestry of his meager abode,

Resides a wealth that cannot erode.

For in his simplicity, in his silent grace,

Lies a richness time cannot efface.

A poet of life, though silent his pen,

His legacy echoes beyond mortal ken.

So, raise a toast to the poor man's might,

In his simplicity, find the purest light.

For in his story, in his modest span,

Resides the essence of what makes us human.