The smell of freshly cooked roti wafted through the air and enters my nostrils
As I walked by the construction site laden with debris, metal, tools and drills
For the first time in a long time my mind subdues its chatter
My eyes come to a rest on a *** of soon-to-be cooked batter
The destitute woman sat by a tiny fire with a handful of pots and pans
Cooking for those whose hands would bring to life the Architect's plans
The look in her eyes wasn't that of servility or resignation
She struck me as one who practised mindful meditation
Two little ones played with a stick within their mother’s line of sight
It was hard to believe that a piece of wood could bring them such delight
Their ages four and seven from the look in their exuberant eyes
Hardly did they know that they were born to be chastised
A stone’s throw away, under the only light bulb, sat a girl in her attire from school
A few books on her lap, a pencil in hand, she sat studying on a wooden stool
She was a dreamer this one, dreamt of making her mother proud
She gave in to nothing but knowledge, for whom humbly she bowed
In the darkest corner lay the father on a wooden cot; bottle in hand
His back to the light, drunken mind wandering through promise land
He had been broken this one; no man’s free without being the master of his own will
Freedom he had never known, for since birth another’s land has he always tilled
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
The smell of freshly cooked roti wafted through the air and enters my nostrils
As I walked by the construction site laden with debris, metal, tools and drills
For the first time in a long time my mind subdues its chatter
My eyes come to a rest on a *** of soon-to-be cooked batter
The destitute woman sat by a tiny fire with a handful of pots and pans
Cooking for those whose hands would bring to life the Architect's plans
The look in her eyes wasn't that of servility or resignation
She struck me as one who practised mindful meditation
Two little ones played with a stick within their mother’s line of sight
It was hard to believe that a piece of wood could bring them such delight
Their ages four and seven from the look in their exuberant eyes
Hardly did they know that they were born to be chastised
A stone’s throw away, under the only light bulb, sat a girl in her attire from school
A few books on her lap, a pencil in hand, she sat studying on a wooden stool
She was a dreamer this one, dreamt of making her mother proud
She gave in to nothing but knowledge, for whom humbly she bowed
In the darkest corner lay the father on a wooden cot; bottle in hand
His back to the light, drunken mind wandering through promise land
He had been broken this one; no man’s free without being the master of his own will
Freedom he had never known, for since birth another’s land has he always tilled
roti is a form of Indian bread
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