Thursday, July 03, 2008

The slum of death and dying

In the eyes of the negated ones
Dwelling the slum
Every alley they thread
Carries gun to their heads
Waiting only to explode
Splashing their brain around.

The call for survival
Brings about the revival
Of notoriety in man to full light
His life is his and for his people
To death, he will protect it
And he brandishes the revolver
A symbol of power and strength.

Ramshackle houses, spilling the crowd
On the alleys, human finds the mat
To engross in a moment of sleep
The sleep deprived during day’s noise.
But, hell! The sleep never comes.
As they stare at the night skies
Dotted with the stars of hope
Machete and revolvers side by side
They held tight in fear,
Who knows?
That night could the last night.

Life is a rudimentary routine
To work and to earn and to feed
The rest are but secondary, less relevant.

Ostentatiously they ignore the other needs
From the eyes of their women and children
But, at night they sneak out for the entertainment
They are gregarious people, who mingle without borders
Yet beneath their mind, the fear lurks
As they step in the alley of darkness,
Any moment, the sound of a gun can pierce the silence
And a brother may go down kissing the earth
So much is the fear of the man in this slum
The slum of death and dying.

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  1. From my position of safety and security, this poem leaves me with a lot to ponder--well done

  2. Hi Sage, Thank you for the comment. Judging from the current affairs in the world, this kinda situation can arise in any part of the world.

  3. One doesn't realize how lucky he is till reading something like your poem - and how quickly that can change.