I Wade Through

( This poem is for the street kids. They have this specific spot in the entrance of a tourist hub, back home. They live with a wall, actually, they live with only the wall on their back. They sleep on the dirty pavements, empty dendrite tubes and dogs lay scattered about, with nothing but rags and newspapers on them. And behind the wall, there is some high class bureaucratic office. Very apt situation there. I do not want to say that they are the sole responsibilities of the government, and from what I have read and heard from friends who work in development sector, NGOs, street kids are the most difficult to deal with. Sometimes even more than the children affected by wars. I think it is because, these kids have already given up hope of life... they sort of live like zombies, but I would also like to believe that there is hope for them. I want to work with them in future, first I have to finish my own education, earn a little, be financially independent before I venture out. But once I do, they will definitly be where I will start my work. May be run a workshop where I can bring them in and teach them poetry and art... I do believe that poetry and art can heal human souls... may be not entirely, but it could... I believe words have magic. Lets see what the future holds.)

In this country of faceless gods and goddesses,
where the history has crumbled away,
like the layer of cheap white wash they put
on decaying walls of ancient palaces every dashain,
the future sleeps on stinking coarse pavements
stick thin tangled limbs and mangled heads with no dreams
with nothing on but soiled clothes and occasionally a dog or two.

These are paper flowers with newspaper thrones on them.
These are aborted lives living in live carcasses.
These are abused sons and daughters;
childhood recklessness of runnin away gone bad
Hunger for food and love gone desperate,
now they exist, stomach full with smell of dendrite and shoe polish,
heart filled with empty emotions. 
                              
I have no wish when it comes to them,
I am not strong enough to love them or rich enough to feed them all.
But I will, may be buy them a packets of noodles or Glucose Biscuits,
May be even 25ml tetra paks of mango juice.
With this, I have done my good;
I become impermeable to the infinite sadness in their eyes.
These open wounds of humanity, stop bleeding for me ( for the time being) to wade through.