The biggest wealth of a poor person is his respect ... and even if he gives away his respect, he still won't be able to buy his love, his dreams

I started alone towards my destination ... people joined and it started to become a caravan ... I wrote the story of sorrow with the blood of my heart ... and the spectacle of life turned into a garden

There is a crime behind every piece of money ... and until a person commits a crime, he doesn't become a millionaire

Be it gold or silver, the balance used to weigh them is made of iron or brass ... just like that everything in this world is weighed on the balance of humanity

My lord until when I can hold my anger ... until when will you show mercy on the cruel people ... until when will the innocent go through injustice and cruelty ... until when will we keep seeing this bloody scene

In the market of money the law dances like a puppet on my indications ... and I do the justice, I do it

There will be so many pieces made of his dead body ... that the person crying will not be able to understand as to which piece to hold and cry

If you still don't understand the power of a poor man ... then go to all the mansions of the world ... and ask each and every brick of their construction as to who is the one who made them and who will destroy them

If this stick hits your body then your skin won't tear ... but the pain will enter into the bones

When the blood of a poor person is moulded then this coin is formed ... and when this coin is weighed in the market ... then a brother of a poor person gets books, college ... and hopes of a brighter tomorrow

Cruelty is still cruelty ... when it grows it is erased ... blood is still blood ... when it flows then it dries up

Be it love or war ... only two things can help you win ... one money and other stick