By Hamsini
A little sylph sat in a thatched hut,
And rocked her babe to sleep,
Back and forth she rocked him,
Back and forth, back and forth,
In hope that when he fell asleep,
She could secede to the slumber she deserved.
In the stifling heat of dust and poverty,
A man sauntered up the path.
It’s hard to drag yourself through empty streets
With empty stomachs and no sleep.
The drunk, in all his coherency would know,
All there is to know about poverty.
He walks through the lifeless city,
Slumping on the doorstep of a garish building,
Painted hurriedly, to disguise the ugliness throughout,
The jungle of glass and money could only pleasure provide.
The disco lights are set ablaze all over town,
Providing release from the pain of existence.
The figures, the people, their hearts that beat,
They do not beat in unity.
When they smile, one cannot sense any enjoyment.
But they have money to fill the coiffeurs,
for seventeen generations to come.
Does that not satiate their thirst for life?
Suddenly the unhappy stillness of the night was broken
By a deep voice, which had an edge of steel.
It was the voice of a man who had known both fear and hope.
On could sense a hint of scorn, a hint of embittered humility
It was not his eloquence but the simple truth behind his words
That managed to capture his audience’s fancy.
His face was in shadows, he had not touched his drink,
His hands seemed rough, like those of a manual labourer’s.
He did not speak of pretence and superficial things.
He spoke of that which embodies human spirit
He spoke of love.
“When there were no rains, they asked for more food.
I mortgaged my lands, my house, my only possessions.
In thanks, they asked for more.
My wife, who works all day, weeps all night.
She walks 12 kms so that I can quench my thirst each afternoon.
She must resent me for the life we lead.
My fellow brothers, my friends and comrades,
We’ve lived all our lives in peasant huts, in ghettos and hovels.
But we shall step above ourselves, to a better world.”
He paused and took a breath.
“I do not have land to call my own,
I do not have cattle that obeys me,
I have a shanty which my family calls ‘home’.
I have faded clothes on my back to hide me from my naked monstrosity.
I live as the person I am, as the one I learnt to be,
From job to job, I moved, penniless as before.
All because my family had no land to call their own.”
He paused and took a breath.
“All you government men say that you’re doing the best you can,
You say that free market is profitable and that capitalism is moral.
Where is the morality in watching your countrymen starve?
The rich become richer, the poor become poorer,
The middle class wallows in their race for a better life.
And you call this development?!”
He paused and slowly continued,
“I dream of a nation where there are no rich and no poor,
A place of contention, of happiness which satisfies one’s innermost needs.
I dream of a place where there is no struggle, no societal dogma,
A place where blind faith is not the cause of the loss of millions of lives.
I dream of a place with no God to overrule your own judgement,
For God is just an idea that keeps man enslaved to his misery.”
A voice spoke so passionately, you could see the fire blazing in his eyes.
He spoke for the oppressed who could find no voice.
But was anyone listening in the dead night?
His fire wavered; he downed his fourth glass of absinthe
Slumped over the wooden counter, he thought,
He was young and bored of being young and bored.
There was so much to do, so little time and so few people to do it.
As he engineered great, global plans on the back of a paper napkin,
He fell asleep.
Basically I write, I read and I dream up fairytales. The rest of the time, I nibble at food, sing songs off tune, and pretend to be a hotshot photographer. I also love the wind in my hair, basking in the sun, a healthy dose of cynicism and coffee on the rocks.
