For children staying in the refugee camps of Gujarat, June 2002
The Elders' stories clang in your ears
the next morning. You are wood
a wooden wedge weighing
down your smile
you stumble into the mass of
liquid eyes pleading trust
pleading sanity
Their hands extended
tiny grubby hands
they hold together the shards of their laughter
clutching your arm
tugging your dupatta
knocking you about with the ferocity of
ingenuous needs
like disfigured dolls, like tin-plate soldiers
they slash your poise till you flee
in collapse
in impotence.
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