In Bombay I got lost in a slum so vast, a maze of poverty its inhabitants
survive in a mysterious way living as they do off the waste produced by
the prosperous. This anthill, this myriad of struggling humanity, if they
are not too busy surviving every moment of the day, look up and see
the formidable sight of the rich. A skyscraper built for a family of four,
yet vast with so many floors and rooms it has a place for slum dwellers too.
so why do they not take it over. A revolution of short duration, defecate
in every room, elevators and swimming pools; let the rich smell the stench
of your life till the police – servants of the powerful- come, throw you out.
Shoulder to shoulder they exist the sinner and the saint, a son suckling
a breast that has no milk, death and filth clouds the day, blinded stumbling
fumbling in despair, a jute sack of destitution, how to be free?
But there is one pleasant thought, this obscene edifice, a one finger salute to
the poor, will never be glorious again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem