A small child cries
his wail is gentle
a trickle down an everlasting stream
a tired cry a helpless cry
as though he himself does not know
why he cries
his eyes are sore, grime coats his cheeks
hollow spots of white play on his sunken cheeks
a few teeth are broken, matted hair strung with white lice eggs
hang
someone had put some coconut oil in his hair
a few years a few centuries ago
he cries and his mother slaps him
the roti is too hot it hurts the ulcers in his mouth
his mother is impatient, after all its food
so what if it hurts when he eats it?
he sucks in his tears and uses the left over moisture to
chew suck swallow bread given in charity
Over across somewhere important they speak of Kashmir
they hitch their khaki pants over rotund meat filled stomachs
the afternoon meal is broken by conversation
Kashmir, Musharaff, Vajpayee, Missiles and Clinton
People argue incessently, my god is better than yours
Your god is a woman! an idol
Mine is circumcized, a he-man
You are a fundamentalist, I the true owner of this world!
see my India is Silicon Valley
see my Pakistan its pure Muslim!
The childs ulcers are bleeding
the bread has too much salt
A few words of love would heal;
but who will speak them?
My child, my sub-continent is dying
perishing under the weight of hate
and scraps of charity
A few words of love can heal
who is to speak them?
who among us has the courage to love?
For a few words of love
Jan 3, 2001
