Pebbles of Care

Like crows on a telephone wire
Half naked they sit in a row
In front of their squalid slum huts
With hot sweat on their brow.

Their grins so tauntingly sad
They gaze with vacant eyes
They squat on their unshod feet
And gulp their mournful sighs.

Comfort is a wistful dream
For the wretches of this great big town
Victims of dichotomous values
Their faces are etched with a forlorn frown.

They peep inside the riceless bowl
As empty as their lives
They rejoice when it rains through the roofs
For the clean water they get from the skies.

Endless traffic of gleaming cars
Pass noisily by their huts
Spewing out unburnt exhaust gases
That poison their very guts.

Sightless men sit inside the cars
On cushioned leather seats
With a veil over their callous minds
Cursing the congested streets.

They look, but do not see
This great unequal divide
Their insensitive hearts fail to grasp
The soothing balm they could provide.

They do not have to make tidal waves
To bring succour to the needy poor
But only drop a pebble in the placid pond
And make ripples of care assured.

This world will be torn asunder
If those who can help, do not see
And if they turn a blind eye to reality
Their children may not roam free.

~ Krishna ~

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