Dalit Woman Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

A child of twelve looks back quite dignified
moderately sad dragging her cloth-sack
across lands slanting upwards, , putrefied.
Skies above filled with scavenging crows glide
sourcing a better livelihood or snack
in swooping, darting zigzags maniac.
While barefoot urchins search filth festering-
dumps; sweet faces covered in oily-smears
straight-backed, shoulders slouched, go peppering
obscenities of our wealth pig-swilling
collecting plastics ankle-deep in weirs-
of rotting putrid waste like pioneers.
Staking out each square yard for survival.
Dalit survival is no easy task
their castes bar them from any land or title
social leprosy is a life-direful
living hand to mouth with expressions blank
feeding tribes their clan's mean track, fed only by dust