by Prakash Kona
Cut my body to pieces and kill my only child,
I’ll not stop believing that this order
Thrives on murder and prostitution.
The glass houses of the bourgeoisie are stained;
Stones cannot break them.
There is a sad and silent way I walk evening after evening,
The smell of death is among the abandoned poor
Enclosed in lightless spaces of the city.
Their beauty is that of stars you feel on milky white nights;
Resilience gives them a fiery exuberance.
Endowed they are with the power to look back;
They seem dead to glossy eyes of the bourgeoisie.
But they live not in spite of themselves
But because they know
That they are owners of streets on the move,
They are the owners of history,
And their tales will be told for all times to come.
Copyright © 2007 by Prakash Kona