Vera Sidhwa Poems
Children On The Streets Of India
The girl of twelve told me,
A different but then the same story,
That boy of four told me,
His idea of what life should be.
But I different from them,
And yet the same.
Couldn't understand that life's game,
Couldn't even spare THEM,
These very newly arrived, happy and eager ones.
Their laughter, giggles and grin,
Their baby souls with hardly a sin,
Would eventually face such challenges,
That even many adults wouldn't.
These were children of another reality.
But these children were just like others,
With conditions ...
Speak to me of youth, and breezes warmed by the sun
The breezes that falter down cool alleys
In the city built in the sun
Speak to me of flower vendors, and the beggar boys that run
The old ones who stagger through dusty roads
Of a city built in the sun
And I'll tell you of a hundred days when I wished all was well