Over The Old River

Vultures from the city ate some part of her,
There’s a woman on the cold pavement,
And on her sagging breasts, a tiny head rests.
She’s not the only one there—
Just there—by her side
Lies bare, a tranquiller, an addict
Her husband perhaps or brother
Unaware of the cold night
But shivering, half naked man
This on the street by the bridge
Over the old river

His bicycle was burnt by a mob today,
But he is safe, he is untouched
He returns hiding like a mouse to his roofless house
His child is dying with fever—
The sewerage cleaner, is helpless,
His third child perhaps or the fourth one
But yes his beloved son.
Not enough money for the medicine
So he feeds the rest leaves this one dying
This, in house number twenty on the bank
Of the old river

Today he felt he was—filth
His desires are dead and spirit broken,
People this man has been forsaken,
Three sisters to wed, a mother in the bed
But still hopes are high,
Height is the hope,
The height of the bridge from
The water underneath—and depth
Of its bottom though less than abysmal
On the bridge stands a young man, dismal
Over the old river

The four lads nearly killed her, didn’t they?
Kicked her out from the car’s back seat
But she stands, starts walking – there’s no time for talking
She’s walking to her room with shades
There’s no fear there of raids,
She’s cheap—a few bucks only—no aids,
But she stops on her way, its time the school ends,
She’ll pay her little brother’s fee today,
Oh! She feels herself sitting in his car one day--speeding
Over the old river

Don’t misconceive! The city is happy
The enemy feels dreaded, our fears lay shredded,
He’s a visionary, he can see
Now safer than in the mother’s womb,
We live with an atomic bomb
And no one would dare come in our way
For we have the power to blast them away
So he wonders how foolish these people— how terse
In mind, and more formless than his verse,
Perhaps because it hasn’t rained for months
Over the old river

Ah Poetry Orkut Community
Posted By - Anon
8/5/2006 10:56 AM