A group of boys in faded clothes boldly share a partially used beedi and walk past the disabled artist who draws the same picture with chalk on the quiet road every few months. The vegetable vendor’s bare soles are dirty and cracked. But his eyes are bright. His voice rings out loud and spirited.
This prison. Walls. No trees.
No where to hide
To be alone or cry.
There is no wholesome plant here
There is no learning
Being with the dead kills me.
There aren’t enough trees
Not enough shade
Dry dust and plastic.
Moisture in the wind
Falling leaves; dry and
Brittle. Wait for rain.
Some bright green leaves and,
some branches, leafless,
Flowers in some; pink,
The jungle burns all through the night,
They say you can see it from the satellite.
Smoke so thick for miles around,
They had to close the airports down.
The green of the jungle turns flaming red
As another cattle ranch gets the go-ahead.
Hamburgers grow where the forests once stood,
Somehow I get the feeling that we’ve all been fooled.
29/12/2009 Hello 🙂 I have been in Slough, a town near London, for around two weeks now. It has been restful to spend time with family, watch movies, go shopping etc. The Christmas and Boxing days were mainly an opportunity to shop. I hardly felt Christmassy, and that is sad because I like the spirit … [Read more…]