*Through Tired Eyes*
She blinks, and rubs her eyes
Tears as a speck of dust
Gets into her left one
And sniffs to clear her nose
She stares at the sun
A glowing, blistering ball
Mercilessly beating upon her
Making her sweat
She absently pats the papayas
Resting by her side on the mat
Startling away the flies on her hands
For a little while
She looks up and down the busy street
Bustling, full of foreign people
Wearing batik hats to keep out the sun
And loose cotton clothes to keep out the heat
She kneels on the hard cobbled ground
Of the dirty grimy marketplace
Looking down serenely, quietly
Or is it simply tiredly?
She rubs her callused hands
And licks her dry chapped lips
Her tattered rags barely hanging on her shoulders
Her hair tied back in an impeccable bun
Her throat is hoarse,
And her voice has given out
The strength has gone from her frail frame
Years of toil have worn her down
From the padi fields
To the factory, and now, to this
Selling her wares like a beggar
In the middle of an indifferent world
She looks up when she sees
In front of her, a pair of feet
In stylish black sandals
And hope wells up in her heart
But the feet soon turn away
And walk off, in search of better buys
And her face is wrought with another wrinkle
As she looks at his back through tired eyes.
*Rain Must Fall*
What are these that we should cherish?
Gold and silver, gems and jewels?
For once Death knocks upon the door
There is no escaping, no leaving
No saving, not even praying
For Death will take
What it wants, when it wants
And who are we to query?
Yet it is our deeds, after, before
And upon its arrival at the door
That our hearts should really cherish
I look at Death
Breathe its unholy, unearthly odour
Unafraid, unintimidated, I say :
"You can take me, if you want
For what I wanted I'd already done
In giving, in living
In caring, in sharing
This is perhaps my very last call
Till the very end, I must stand tall
For I know, that rain must fall..."
*Tinge*
On the porch, screened together.
In the swing, barred with nails.
I sit with movement of bars in constant frenzy,
hoping to stir the continual zephyr of air around
my floating carcass.
Dead I may feel, but loosely driven I may look.
Driven for what you ask.
Driven for the constant Tinge and feeling of being.
Moving, but going nowhere in time or space.
Putting the vision of my reason for living in my brain.
My reason for using your air.
Air, what a strong word. What a mouthful!
You breathe it in and in a mouthful, it's gone.
What does is do to you?
Well, besides for taking that taste away.
Besides for releasing a part of you.
Breathe is life. Giving and Receiving!
Receiving a perpetual sway that takes you into it.
Forming a metamorphosis of the real you.
The mind is in the mood of the world and the body,
in this swing that sways and never stops .
.
