Poetry

Why she lives..?


Walking through the street

In a village under the hills and the clouds

In a gray black evening

I heard her crying, muttering,

Mourning over something

Nobody listened to

The whisper of

Her silent complaint

Her frail stature.

 

She came again

Another day

Her hands gripped

A paper,

Written on some advice

She follows that paper says

She appeals

Through her pain

Knocked door to door

Her wounds and stain

Seeking judgment

All in vain

One says she is mad

Another,

She weaves story

Nothing truth, all cloudy.

 

Surprised my eyes

Could watch

People escape

No support, blaming her instead

She was dragged

Into a court, every day on streets

They never felt

Truth needs no witness

Truth is truth

Clearly visible

In her heart, her throat

Dried her hands, and shedding skin

Her dirty, stained clothes

Blood afresh on forehead strip

What is not true?

Is it her trust?

Trust on her community,

Or on these people?

The people she trusted and cared for long?

Is it her trust on the streets she married to?

 

A woman in a village

When gets old and alone

She never has one to think

To give and take

To speak and listen

To hold and hug

To sit and walk with

To cry and laugh with

To cool and warm

To share and care

To just to live or to die with

Nobody is concerned,

If she dies.

Yet more are concerned

Why she lives?

old-indian-lady-20616017 images

Poetry

What is driving life?


In blue wrap around

In muddy fields,

She struggles with crops and grain

Heavy rain,

Few empty stomachs, dried eyes

Waiting for her to return

In the pain

Her sweat is washed away

Her sore throat is voiceless

This every day’s unquenchable thirst of her

Is driving life.

 

Give me a reason to live

He feels soaking up heat

Kissing the blazing sun

Dragging a cart, dancing with dust

Skin burnt and wrinkled

Waited long for the wind

To cool down

Through pores to the veins

Through skin to the bones

A desire for small shelter for him

Is driving life.

 

A rag picker boy

A day nightingale girl on streets

A candy seller kid in the fair, bus or train

The solitude in their lives

The need of belongings

The force of hunger

The burden on their shoulders

Is driving life.

Rag Picker 8831E1EBD9C701DA7C5B8581D326 img_2347 Farmer works in a paddy field on the outskirts of Agartala