an ox stands in thechin middle of the road
and spiritualities as the monsoon begins
his master, connected to him spiritually races
in the mud trying to find him with frantic cries
the lost ox of india,
fearing nothing, rooted in love of God
making entreaties for climatic clemency
his burden of work over
his back strong
his calls bursting through the heavens
the sky bursts as the man finds him, frantically
touches the animal's skin and walks him home
no matter the fear or the onslaught...
the ox is more believing
men who worked for eons to have carts see them
toppled by the storms, splintered but rebuilt in their
minds, sensible hammers making all new
a beautiful woman alone braids her hair, trembles,
burns incense as the storm claps down its palm but
this time is tender near her, her terror at the images of
no mercy, the deaths, the broken limbs and lives at a distance
womb of sorrowful rain
pummeled land of searing storm fists
then the storms lift
thousands of lips the image of prayer
Then, sunlight you come, smiling?
Where have you been?
Strangers hug in the streets celebrating
the life still in their bodies
Beautiful Indian men with bicycles carried
on their shoulders, shirts drenching wet
Throngs of thousands forcing footsteps
through the deep mud of earthen roads
Men and women weeping over dreams
destroyed, buckets born by man after man
to bail out the unbailable
Shopkeepers crying in agony at the damage to
their businesses while others whisper, 'He knows
not God's hand on him, in some areas such was swept
away, and many had to evacuate. '
Yet, still comes the cry, 'So, much paperwork to have
and complete.How will I ever rebuild? '
Truths of the dead being told between wails
'He was my brother.She was my sister. They
were men of worship.'
Women with children being helped, carried to solid
walk paths, some slats of wood to buy provisions
which were left intact only by the hand of God
Stuck sedans with spinning wheels aided
Vehicles on their sides pushed by many
upright, others left as metal skeletons of use
before. The broken bones of trees but not kindness.
Even forgiveness for the thief, the burglar, the impure
of purpose in a time of great need
Beautiful brown people having survived,
kissing and hugging those known and others
unknown, all grateful to have survived, in the bright sunlight
A man still wet lifts his palms up in prayers
of thanks, his smile eternal as he looks lovingly
towards God in the heavens weeping, yet laughing
his thanks there in the street asking for rebuilding,
re- birth, praising any full bowl, entreaty at the empty
©Copyright 2014 by Romella Kitchens, all rights reserved.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem