I Know Why the Caged Bird Cries
I first visited Bombay in the early sixties;
I found it to be a city of immense contrasts.
Contrast,
High Caste,
Low Caste,
~ Untouchable ~
Yet to many, the "untouchables" are so very touchable.
The girls in the cages, from innocent ages,
In the brothels of Falkland Road,
Sold to the street, that her siblings may eat,
And the wild oats of others be sowed.
Her groans are not ecstasy, neither her sighs,
At thirteen, no passion in depths of dead eyes.
A year in the cages leaves nought to surprise,
All life has to offer is hurt, dirt and lies.
They cling to each other, their misery share,
Cheated of childhood, no parent to care.
Emotionally hidden, erotically bare,
These children who know only fear and despair.
In another life, in another guise,
The luck of the draw, a roll of the dice;
I may have had siblings, wanting for rice,
I may have been chosen to pay this high price.
So just who are we? the wealthy? the wise?
Poverty's Why the Caged Bird Cries.
© deezee 2015
(David Hart}
