(Poem in simple, powerful English)
A puncture of a poor man
is not just a hole in a tyre—
it is a small wound in his day,
a sudden pause in his struggle,
a tiny tragedy the world never sees.
The tyre sighs,
air escaping like a tired breath,
but the man does not sigh.
He bends,
he examines,
he wipes sweat with the back of his hand
and begins again.
His tools are old,
his hands rough like unpolished stone,
but his spirit—
his spirit is sharper
than the strongest needle used for repair.
The road is hot,
the sun sits heavy on his shoulders,
but he kneels on the dusty ground
as if it were his home,
his workshop,
his battlefield.
People pass.
Cars rush by.
Some look,
some ignore,
some think it is only a puncture.
But it is never “only a puncture”
for a man who lives from day to day.
For him,
a puncture is a delay in dinner,
an interruption of hope,
a test of patience.
It is the difference
between earning and losing,
between “maybe today”
and “maybe tomorrow.”
Yet he works—
steady, silent,
like a tree that bends
but refuses to fall.
He patches the hole
with quick practiced movements,
as if stitching the torn edges
of his own life.
Each press of his thumb
is a reminder
that survival has no holidays.
The rubber smells of heat,
the glue sticks to his skin,
but he continues—
because duty does not wait,
and poverty does not pause.
A small boy watches him,
eyes full of curiosity,
dreams full of something brighter.
The man looks up,
smiles tiredly,
and returns to work.
His smile is cracked,
but sincere—
a little light
in a life of shadows.
At last, the tyre rises again,
round, strong, ready for the road.
The man wipes his hands,
stands slowly,
and breathes.
He does not celebrate.
He simply moves on
to the next waiting wheel,
the next problem,
the next piece of life
that needs repair.
Because a poor man knows
that even when life punctures him
with worry, hunger, and hardship,
he must patch himself up
and keep going.
And so he does—
every day,
every hour,
every moment,
quietly fixing the world
while the world looks away.
