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Jarawas

They emanate a savage innocence
of prehistoric days.
Mud-caked bodies
With pot-bellied profile,
Beckoning strangers
with loud whispers.
Bows and arrows
Dangling from their shoulders.
They don’t like to wage wars
Just ask for simple thing
“Biscuits”
Which they have struggled
To spell over the years.
Their buxom bodies
Entwined with threads of red,
Voluptuous breasts
Left carefree,
Inviting gaze of thousands passer-by.
Dwelling far away
from the cobwebs of
modern life;
they abhor wearing masks.
The flesh speaks from within
revealing years of struggle
for their natural survival.

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