In clothes that were rich once,
Now reeking of the street,
The child walks barefoot,
With a swaying balance.
Meeting every tired, indifferent eye,
Hoping to sell his wares ––
A score of heavy colouring books.
The boy stood in his man’s garb
Of pain and reality,
Not pleading, not begging,
Harsh childhood-less voice churning out words,
Meaningless, worn with use.
All he elicits, are shakes of heads,
And sometimes, a feigned, determined ignorance.
As he waits to alight,
Hands still a score full,
Does he debate – will he beg?
No, he doesn’t.
The train stops, the child grunts off,
Leaving only a Cheshire look ––
No reproach, just emptiness.
And in the train is left only
A shifty-eyed awareness, and denial.
Now reeking of the street,
The child walks barefoot,
With a swaying balance.
Meeting every tired, indifferent eye,
Hoping to sell his wares ––
A score of heavy colouring books.
The boy stood in his man’s garb
Of pain and reality,
Not pleading, not begging,
Harsh childhood-less voice churning out words,
Meaningless, worn with use.
All he elicits, are shakes of heads,
And sometimes, a feigned, determined ignorance.
As he waits to alight,
Hands still a score full,
Does he debate – will he beg?
No, he doesn’t.
The train stops, the child grunts off,
Leaving only a Cheshire look ––
No reproach, just emptiness.
And in the train is left only
A shifty-eyed awareness, and denial.
I really like this one, it struck a chord... because i remember seeing a similar child on the train a year ago. A poem doesn't necessarily have to follow the rhyming scheme...it is also like telling a short story in way shorter lines and this one surely hits the nail.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Jane! It was a difficult scene to witness, and I am still uneasy, since we all, at some point of time, are victims to our own forced ignorance...
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