The Lender's Coin

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In shadowed lanes and village square,
A whisper walks in heavy air.
When banks turn blind to needs so small,
And formal doors won't open all,
Beware the hand that reaches near,
And whispers promises in your ear.
He comes not dressed in silken grace,
But knows each tear on every face.
To farmer, widow, man in need,
He offers help — a borrowed seed.

His doorway beckons pain and sin.
A hand extends, a coin is tossed,
But every gain hides deeper cost.
He greets your plea with practiced grace,
A cold, unkindness in his face.

His purse, a well that never dries,
But on your principal, his interest flies.
For every drop he lends with care,
His greedy interest multiplies despair.
Like silent ivy, strong and deep,
His interest climbs while you just weep.

Like fire he warms the desperate soul,
But unchecked, burns and swallows whole.
He asks no proof, no form, no name,
Yet binds you in a silent chain.
A storm in calm, a cruel, smiling knife,
He gives a loan — but carves your life.

The fields you till, the craft you hone,
No longer yours, but all his own.
Your very sweat, a debt renewed,
Your future's freedom, now subdued.
He watches silent, cold and grim,
As hope's faint flicker starts to dim.

Some call him savior in disguise,
Some curse his grip, with weary sighs.
Though seasons turn, and debts seem paid,
The unseen scars refuse to fade.
For freedom bought with chains of debt
Leaves deeper scars you won’t forget.

So weigh the coin he offers you,
It shines — but stains your fingers too.
A single rupee from his hand
Can sprout a tree — or salt the land.
Then heed this verse, let wisdom call,
Lest the lender's shadow claims you all.

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