Rickshaa

Cycle Rickshaa

He's not brave:
You move to hit him
And he'll cower.

And yet animal-like
He takes beating well:
He's not a coward.

He sweats for scarce
Rice on tin plate
He's never glad.

And yet he never
Has had a dream,
So he's not sad.

To call him stoic
Would bestow on him
Too much dignity.

And yet there's Rhythm
In his rise and fall,
And he knows it.