Home Arts & Culture Precious Hands (Dedicated To The Migrant Workers of India)

Precious Hands (Dedicated To The Migrant Workers of India)

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The waves of heat rose off the pavement like flames above a roof.

The jingle of anklets as her desperate feet move,

 

What’s this coming with every clink of her bangle

Strange pain mingling with music, silent unnoticed tear trickle down her eyes.

 

With the earth on her cheeks, and soil embroiled in her swirls,

And her faltering feminine fragility in her hideously dead eyes.

 

Encountering the miraculous stringing heat on her feet

Heating the young blood in her impatient panic stricken nerves

 

Devouring the red rays of the sealed fire in her burdens

With Her, forgotten to blossom, dusky cheeks, masking the fate of her ocean eyes.

 

The clouds of pain shadowing on her innocence, her cheeks

Being colourful rain bearing clouds or just two fading roses.

 

The face of her sorrow-gripped youth in rags is worth observing

It’s like moon wandering through bits of strolling clouds

 

Ah! How this spectacle fills my heart with heavy shameful sorrow

I would not call it poor but the sight of my diseased country.

 

Where the fading beauty is compelled to walk miles

For what atrocity is she compelled to walk miles?

 

Wailing are her cold, weak and delicate hands,

While she should have had a pretty flower in those precious hands.

 

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